


Wild Hunt

by fizzbuzzler



Series: The Wild Hunt [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Aen Elle, Blood Kink, Breathplay, Conditioning, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Multi, Psychological Torture, Sadistic elves, Self-Harm, Submission, Suicidal Thoughts, Tir ná Lia, Torture, Wild Hunt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-01-04 03:58:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 51,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12161082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fizzbuzzler/pseuds/fizzbuzzler
Summary: When I read the books and later played the games I always wondered - what the hell did Geralt do with the Wild Hunt? How did they even bring him to ride with them? Most certainly not by asking nicely.This story tries to find out what really happened.And I can promise one thing - it is good that he ended up with amnesia afterwards. Because just blackmailing would amount to exactly nothing with the Witcher. He needs to join their raids out of his own free will.Expect lots of pain and desperation. Dark stuff basically.I adapted the known timelines from the books and games to fit with my narrative (various online sources point to several large gaps and inconsistencies with the books as well as the games so I don't feel guilty at all, doing my own thing).





	1. True love

“You want to be a hero? There are no happy endings for heroes.”  
The sentence still echoed in his mind when he was dragged down the dank corridor and thrown into a dark cell. He found it somewhat amusing that a place like this existed within the perfect beauty of Tir ná Lia. For some reason he had expected the cells to be just as ethereal and otherworldly as the rest of the city. But the hole he had ended up in could just as well have been anywhere in Velen or Novigrad.  
With a sigh he sat down on the thin pallet and rested his head against the wall. Everything had happened so fast in the last two days, he was still trying to get his head around it.  
A small smile played on his lips - at least Yen would be safe. Letho carrying her away in his arms was the last thing he had seen, before ice and cold wrapped around him and froze his whole being. And Eredin had sworn she would live.  
Geralt groaned - the King of the Aen Elle brought up more than one memory. And not a single good one among them. Just remembering his condescending sneer after Geralt had offered himself in exchange for the sorceress, had the Witcher clench his teeth.  
'You want to be a hero? There are no happy endings for heroes.'  
As if - he never intended to be heroic or anything of the kind. All he ever wanted was to see Yen in safety, unharmed. If it meant that he would go with the Wild Hunt, so be it. He never had any illusions about his life and it’s unavoidable end, anyway. He was a Witcher - he dealt with death and loss on a daily basis. And no Witcher had ever died in his bed. When he saw that they stood no chance in winning against the Hunt, he had called the other Witchers back and approached Eredin alone. He had done it while they still stood strong, and Eredin was a good tactician. He didn’t want to lose any more fighters than he already had. So the deal had been struck.  
Geralt had watched Yennefer’s still body as it was revealed within the snow and ice that accompanied the Hunt, and picked her up himself. A very faint scent of lilac and gooseberries emanated from her unconscious form. Geralt held her tight and buried his nose in her black hair, breathing in deeply. He wanted to remember every single hair, every lash and the slight curve of her mouth. He wanted it to be seared into his memory together with the feeling of her soft body pressed against his, when he carried her over to Letho and the others. Before he handed her to the bald Witcher, he kissed her softly, his lips lingering for a few moments on hers, relishing the feeling and her taste.  
It took only one short look into Letho’s eyes to know that the tall Witcher would give everything to keep his promise to Geralt - to keep Yen save. With a short nod Geralt put his hand on the other’s shoulder. A quick good bye, before he turned around and approached Eredin and his generals.  
The three Aen Elle stood like statues, tall and still, as if made of stone.  
“I’m here, let’s go.” Geralt stood before them, arms crossed. Although they were still wearing their masked helmets, he thought he could sense a humorous expression from both Imlerith and the navigator, Caranthir. Eredin wasn’t amused however - he lifted his hand, and a group of warriors approached to disarm Geralt. He felt strange without the weight of his swords on his back. Then the men continued to rid him of his armor until he only wore his trousers, boots and undershirt. But he didn’t resist. He had made a deal and he would follow through - although he had no idea what his side of the bargain actually entailed. Knowing that the hunt preferably showed up on his world to take slaves, he wasn’t sure if this was his destiny. He thought it more likely to end up as prisoner in a cell. And eventually he would be killed.  
When rough hands pulled his arms behind his back and placed heavy metal shackles on them he grunted.  
“Nice to know that you still seem to fear me - even without my swords.”  
There was no response from the Aen Elle, and after a few moments Eredin just turned around and mounted his horse. His men followed, and Geralt was unceremoniously thrown into the saddle of a spare horse and his legs were tied to the stirrups. One rider took his mount’s reins and the whole cavalcade started moving.  
Turning back, Geralt saw the broad back of Letho and the raven black hair of the sorceress he carried, but snow and ice soon obscured his vision. He was alone.  
The cold crept into his body, even quicker now, because he only wore his thin shirt. He started shivering but nobody seemed to care. Soon he began to feel not only cold but numb, and tiredness crept up to him. He knew he was about to freeze to death, and somehow that amused him greatly. To trick Eredin in this way had never occurred to him, but if he died now, the Aen Elle would end up empty handed - no sorceress and no witcher. He couldn’t even smile anymore, feeling like even his mind was starting to freeze over. He welcomed the darkness that came, and enveloped him in softness and imagined warmth.

In retrospect he should have known, that the cold, and seemingly freezing to death were Eredin’s doing all along. The Aen Elle had used his frost magic to ensure the Witcher would not try to escape or undertake any other attempt to fight. Geralt had literally been thawed back to life before they reached Eredin’s palace. He only saw the magnificent buildings and twirling towers through a haze, but his mind had cleared up when their horse’s hoofbeats echoed from the tall translucent walls of the palace. Being pulled from the saddle he wasn’t able to stand on his own and collapsed to his knees. Hitting the hard stone he grunted. A sharp command from one of the generals had two riders pick him up under his arms and pull him into a building. They dragged him down several flights of stairs before he ended up in the cell. At least they had removed the shackles.  
He tried to remember what he had seen after he had woken up but all his mind came up with were subdued colors, light and strange forms. The few glimpses he got of Eredin’s palace - because there was no doubt this was the king’s place - had shown him the beautiful architecture of the elves. It had been shortly before sunrise and he couldn’t remember seeing any other people on the roads or the courtyard.  
He sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. Deciding to use his time as good as he could, he started with some light training. It focused him enough to be able to meditate for a while afterwards.  
When the cell door opened he still knelt in the middle of the room, eyes closed but already wide awake. There was a clank on the stone floor and the door closed again. His nose told him that some guard must have brought food. It didn’t smell too inviting, so he decided to continue his meditation. Only a few hours later he resurfaced, feeling much better as his body had used the time to heal the small injuries from the fight and the freezing. Geralt stood up and went over to the bowl on the floor. Picking it up he carefully smelled at it’s contents. Some cold broth with bits floating in it. Said bits were unidentifiable - they could have been vegetables, meat or the innards of a devourer. But he couldn’t really afford to be picky, so he at least drank the broth and tried to force down a few of the less conspicuous pieces. All in all he had had worse - sometimes he even had paid for it beforehand. Putting back the bowl on the floor near the door he decided to investigate his cell. He was finished rather quickly - square, about nine feet long, obviously hewn from bedrock, no window, the door heavily armored, so he had no idea if it was made of metal or wood and a small pallet of dubious age in a corner. Although there was no window and no torches light came from somewhere. It was never really dark - just a constant dim light that seemed to emanate from the walls themselves. No straw littered the floor and there was a small hole in the corner opposite the pallet. A faint rushing could be heard from it - as there was no bucket in the cell he suspected that this meant he was to relieve himself there. That would also explain why there was hardly any of the usual dungeon stench around - he had registered it when he had been brought down here. It was also rather eerily quiet. To be honest he would have preferred some screaming or moaning. At least then he would have known not to be alone.  
He went back to meditating. There was nothing else to do.

Food came twice a day - he soon found out that the guards seemed to wait until he was meditating before they brought his bowl into the cell. He even tested them and didn’t meditate for a whole day - he remained hungry that day.  
Trying to establish a rhythm and some feeling how much time passed he assumed that he had been in the cell for five or six days when he heard the door opening, without him being in his meditative state. Geralt looked up from his pallet, just to see Imlerith standing in his cell. The tall elf had removed his helmet, and the garish red tattoo was visible even in the dim light of the cell.  
A small smile played his lips and he slightly tilted his head “I hope you are not too disappointed that you are still alive.” He began “I have to admit, I was against taking you instead of the sorceress, but Eredin couldn’t wait to get his hands on you.”  
Geralt remained lying on the floor and just lifted his eyebrow questioningly. He kept quiet.  
Imlerith sneered “It seems that you have lost the ability to speak in the last days. But don’t worry, you will learn again. I guess we’ll best start with screaming.” And with that he moved to the side to let two guards into the room. They were nearly as tall as the general and the tiny cell felt rather crowded. The guards picked Geralt from the floor as if he weighed nothing, and carried him between them outside. His struggles were completely ignored - those elves were definitely stronger than him. They reached a large room, still underground without any windows but several doors. Geralt was dragged into the middle and his hands secured in shackles above his head. One of the guards pulled a chain up until the Witcher had to stand on the tip of his toes. Geralt could already feel his shoulders protesting this kind of treatment. And he knew that this was just the beginning.  
Imlerith had followed them and was now leaning against a table that stood by one of the walls. The table held the usual equipment for a torture chamber. Geralt had only glanced at it once. So far the Aen Elle were very similar to humans - even in their choice of torture devices.  
When Imlerith spoke again, it was wasn't what Geralt had expected at all “Eredin has appointed me and Caranthir to take care of your training. He wants you to join the Dearg Ruadhri and ride with him.” His look became inquisitive “So far we haven’t had the pleasure of a Witcher joining our ranks. So this will be an interesting experience for all involved. Caranthir in particular is rather eager to see how you will fare. But then, he likes his experiments.” A nasty grin followed the last sentence.  
Geralt was more or less rendered speech-less. They wanted him to join them? Had they lost their mind? And he clearly told Imlerith what he thought of that idea. There were quite a few choice elven and dwarfish vulgarities in his comment.  
“Ah - he does remember how to speak. I take it you are already planning how you will escape or fight your way back to your world, once we let you join the hunt.” The grin on the elf’s face was tainted with pure hatred. “I would really love to see you try. But unfortunately I am required to make sure that you will not do such a thing. Eredin thinks your knowledge and prowess as a Witcher is extremely valuable to the Hunt, so he wants to utilize it. You will join our ranks out of your own free will or… actually there is no ‘or’. You will not be granted the mercy of dying instead. The only outcome is you riding with us. The sooner you accept, the better for you.”  
Imlerith stared intently at the Witcher and came closer. Leaning in he brought his lips close to Geralt’s ear and whispered “I have all the time in the world.”  
The Witcher roared and bucked in his chains. He tried to head-butt the elf, but Imlerith was already out of his reach. The sudden movement sent shards of pain through his arms into his shoulders, and he tried to calm himself. He would never succumb to their petty threats. And as long as Yen was safe, they didn’t have anything to pressure him into joining. So they would most likely start torturing him - what he had seen so far, it wouldn’t be anything he hadn’t been already subjected to on his world. He wanted them to try. His pupils narrowed into tiny slits and he glared at Imlerith, who still stood before him, watching with a slightly amused but ultimately bored expression.  
“You can try all you want - but thinking you can torture me into following you? What drugs do you use? Because that is one ploughing fantasy you are having there.” Geralt shook his head.

A slow clap came from behind him. Without turning he knew that it could only be the navigator, Caranthir, Eredin’s second general.  
“Great performance. From both of you.” The elf came around and stopped a few feet from Imlerith. It was the first time Geralt saw him without his mask and helmet. He had a rather young face and the typical icy Aen Elle eyes. No scars or tattoos marred the otherworldly elven beauty of his features. He was the most attractive living being Geralt had ever seen. Caranthir moved a bit closer and his eyes bore into the Witcher’s.  
“This is like in one of those tales, where the hero defies the evil lord who captured him. You should have tried to spit into Imlerith’s face, Witcher. Just to stick to the rules.” He paused and his eyes traveled over Geralt’s body.  
“Be assured, we know what we are doing. Do you believe that you are the first slave we caught, who doesn’t end up as servant, a bed-slave or in the mines? Every now and then we get our hands on a fighter or magician who would be wasted otherwise. Although Eredin likes to have some of the more interesting slaves sharing his bed as well. From what I’ve heard about Witchers, you could be quite the interesting subject for experiments in that direction. Or any other kind of experiment, to be honest. You are very resilient to pain and nearly completely immune to infection, aren’t you. I have already asked Eredin to have a few weeks with you, to test some of my theories.”  
Geralt remained silent, there was nothing to say for him. He would make sure to defy them at every point, and at least make all their efforts to turn him a waste of their time. Even if Imlerith had stated that they had all the time in the world, Geralt was quite sure that Eredin had a rather different view on that matter.  
Imlerith tilted his head “Should we start? I am sure the Witcher is eager to show his resilience.”  
“Absolutely.” Caranthir moved his hand in front of Geralt’s face and suddenly the world went dark.  
“No need for you to see right now.” Caranthir’s voice was smooth and dripped with something Geralt couldn’t identify at first. Only when he felt a soft hand travel down his face, across his scar and over his lips he realized that it had been desire. Desire paired with lust - but not of the sexual kind. It was a perverse, sadistic lust to see another being suffer.  
Geralt got proof of that a few moments later, when a powerful wave of magic hit his body, and he felt as if his ribs were trying to bend themselves out of his chest. Although he was blind, a white flash ignited behind his eyes and he could feel his body convulse. When the pain finally disappeared, he heard the faint echo of his own screams.  
“Impressive. It took him ten heartbeats to scream. So far the best only lasted seven.” Caranthir’s voice came as through a long tunnel. Geralt turned his head to the side to get a better sense where the elf was standing. He was panting heavily.  
A sudden touch on his chest had him shrink back instinctively. The hand was cool and it was soon joined by a second. The fingers started to move around and Geralt felt the cool air of the dungeon on his skin. With a slight ripping sound his shirt was cut from his arms. He swallowed hard. Being blinded was worse than he had expected. There was no way for him to prepare himself for whatever the two elves were to do with him. He tried to find a calm spot in his mind, to disengage with what his body experienced, but it seemed that Caranthir had expected just that.  
“Oh no - you will not hide from us. Not here and certainly not in your mind.”  
Geralt felt metal around his neck. It was light but it’s edges were sharp and he could feel barbs bite into his flesh.  
“The collar will make sure you stay with us - as long as you are conscious, anyway.” Caranthir’s voice was close again. His breath caused goosebumps on the Witcher’s skin.  
“He is quite sensitive, isn’t he” Imlerith drawled from the other side of the room. “This will be quite an interesting night.” And with that another wave of pain exploded along Geralt’s spine.  
In the end he had to give it to them - they were inventive. The bursts of agony never appeared on the same spot twice. Although in the end they always consumed his whole body. Whenever his panicked mind sought to separate itself from the tormented body, the collar would start burning and he would be pulled back into this world of everlasting torment.  
At one point he could feel the cool metal of a cup at his lips. He tried to turn his head away - not wanting to accept any kind of compassion on their side, but a hand held his head and he was forced to open his lips and swallow it down. It was water with something else added - as the cool liquid ran down his throat which was raw from screaming it felt so good. A quiet moan escaped his lips at the feeling of relief that swept through his whole body. Belatedly he recognized it as a healing potion. He could literally feel his torn muscles stitching themselves back together, and his cracked bones healing over.  
Finally they left him in peace. It was quiet. He couldn’t even hear their breaths anymore. Assuming they had left him be, he tried to force his mind back on track. Assessing his injuries, trying to identify their motives, fighting back against the whispering in the back of his mind.  
The strange voice that had started after Caranthir - or was it Imlerith, sometimes he couldn’t even tell who was working on him - had done something that felt as if he had pushed his hand inside his chest, and squeezed his heart in his fist. The pain was so otherworldly he just dropped in his chains and was instantly unconscious. When he came back, the voice was there.  
‘Give in. Give in. There is no use in resisting. What are you trying to prove anyway?’  
He despised the voice. However, the worst was that it sounded like Vesemir. The Witcher who had basically raised him to be the man he was now. A Witcher, a man who fought for those who needed help, who lived after his own strict code and morals. If he still had known how to cry, he would have done so. Nevertheless, a few sobs escaped him.  
And Caranthir had jumped at that, like a panther who finally found a weak spot in it’s prey's watchfulness.  
Soft hands roamed across the Witcher’s chest, soothing the pain and Geralt felt himself leaning into the touch. It took him a few heartbeats to move back. He shook his head violently, trying to get rid of both, the voice and the hands. His breath came in hard bursts.  
Then the hands moved down his abs and into the waistband of his trousers. He whimpered. He didn’t want that. Not now, not from those hands.  
And then the touch was gone, just like as if it had never happened. He was strangely grateful when instead of those soft touches, pain came back. Slowly this time, it crept across his skin until he felt like being engulfed in flames and then it ate deeper, through his flesh into his bones and his soul. Again darkness saved him.  
But he never lost that voice during this night. When he was alone and waited for whatever might happen next, it was still there. Whispering every now and then - Vesemir trying to make him give up. 

When guards came taking him down, and brought him back to his cell, he could feel that his body was as unharmed as it had been when the generals had started on him. Their potions combined with his mutated body seemed to work perfectly together.  
His mind however was a different story. Aside from the voice it was far from unharmed. In his cell he crawled on the floor until he reached the pallet and knelt down on it, trying to ready himself for meditation. The collar immediately sprang to life. It’s barbs buried into his neck and a lightning bolt of pain shot down his spine. He dropped to his side and his hands clawed at the metal band.  
Shaking, he waited until the pain abated. Curling up he remained lying there, defeated, and tried to at least find some sleep.

He woke up at the sound of a bowl placed on the floor. At least they kept feeding him. Following the scent he carefully moved across the floor to the bowl. It was the usual fare and he just swallowed it all down without tasting too much. 

When he heard the scraping of the locks he knew they were there to take him to the room again.  
This time he tried to fight against them, and even managed to free one arm throwing the man against the wall before at least two more jumped at him and bore him down. Shackles quickly made an end to his fight and he was dragged to the room, not even giving him a chance to walk by himself.  
Geralt hung in the chains once again. And again it was mostly Caranthir who worked on him. The elf would touch him, when the agony was nearly unbearable. His soft touches being a horrifying but also strangely welcome counterpart to the near constant pain. Sometimes the Witcher thought he felt a tongue lick over his sweat-slicked skin.  
In the middle of the second night his voice cracked, and all he was able to produce were wet moans. He didn’t fall as easy into unconsciousness as the night before, though. Which clearly delighted Caranthir.  
They only left off when they grew bored with him.  
“It isn’t the same without the screams.” complained Caranthir at one point.  
Despite his stupor Geralt managed a huff - he wanted to say that he was truly sorry to disappoint them on their second date, but nothing came out. 

He was brought back to his cell. A bowl was placed in his hands and he was left alone.  
Geralt managed to eat half the bowl, before exhaustion claimed him, and he just dropped the bowl curling up where he was.

Another day brought another bowl and another session - this time with Imlerith alone. In contrast to Caranthir he didn’t rely on inflicting pain by magic, but started to carve into Geralt’s skin immediately. He worked across the Witcher’s whole body, arms and legs. After a time Geralt stopped squirming in his chains and just hung there. Only the occasional spasm shook his body.  
When the bowl with the healing potion was held to his lips he couldn’t even swallow, although he wanted to. They tilted his head back and the liquid just ran down his throat, nearly drowning him.

Bowl, sleep. Darkness. Another bowl. Guards with shackles. Caranthir is back. Pain wrecks his body. Unconsciousness. A soft kiss. More pain. Darkness. Bowl. Pallet.

Wakefulness. Bowl. Shackles. Pain. His voice is back - he screams. Water splashing over him.  
Agony ripping out his soul. Darkness. A dark corridor. Bowl. Sleep.

Bowl. Corridor. Pain. Darkness. Pain. Pain. Bowl. Sleep.

Bowl. Pain. Darkness. 

Bowl. Pain.

Pain.


	2. A certain scent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eredin and his generals try to mold the Witcher to their liking.  
> But Geralt is far from giving up... or is he?

Pain - the one constant in his first month in the cells of Tir ná Lia. He was sure he would never be able to forget it. He couldn’t even imagine how it was to live without pain. And not just the pain from a long day in the saddle or the pain after fighting a forktail and being hit by it’s claws, but bone-deep, constant agony. And his mind had nowhere to flee. His body would heal too fast, aided by the elven potions and unconsciousness was always just a short respite before the next wave hit him.  
The Witcher’s world started to shrink - soon it only contained his cell and the torture room. Caranthir and Imlerith were the only other living beings he ever recognized. None of his guards ever spoke, so he didn’t really think them as real. He was still blind but his other senses grew even more refined than usual.  
  
The two generals worked on him nearly every day - only occasionally one would miss out. But the other always made up for it. Having Caranthir alone was always worst - the elf found a sick, sexual pleasure from making Geralt squirm and scream. And to his own horror, Geralt started to crave the soft touches on his body that inevitably were part of being with the elven navigator. At one point he even felt that he had gotten hard himself, his body mixing up the sensations that were inflicted on it. While he still tried to somehow hide it, by turning away from the elf as far as his chain allowed, Caranthir had already realized what was happening. His hand hand found it’s way in Geralt’s trousers and he started stroking him, while still using his magic to inflict pain. The Witcher’s mind was completely addled, and he felt like walking on a knife’s edge between agony and lust, not knowing to which side he would eventually fall. When he finally came under the elf’s hand, his scream was full of immense pleasure and incredible torment at the same time. Both feelings had intertwined in his mind and suddenly seemed inseparable. But another part of his mind was abhorred, and full of hatred for the elven mage. He tried to lift his legs to hit him in the stomach but the elf just laughed and evaded his blind kick easily.  
“I knew you would enjoy it.” Caranthir smirked coldly. “You will grow to crave my touches.” And with that he left the Witcher hanging in darkness.

  


Only after one long month Geralt got to see Eredin for the first time. The king stood in the torture chamber just as guards took the Witcher down, and prepared to bring him to his cell. Geralt immediately felt a new, unknown presence, and when the elven king finally spoke, he recognized him at once.  
“My generals told me that you are a very interesting specimen.” His cold voice drawled out the words.  
“I came to have a look at you myself. You made me curious, I must admit. The only one to last as long as you, had gone completely mad by this stage. She had been reduced to a blabbering pile of meat but still refused us. In the end we had to put her down, though. But you are clearly still capable of thought - even more or less rational thought. This is… intriguing.”  
  
Geralt felt the king walking around the room. He could follow the smell of ice and frozen earth move to somewhere behind him.  
“Let him go.” came a command, and the hands that had supported his body disappeared. For a few moments he teetered on his wobbly feet, trying even to take a step forward but his muscles wouldn’t obey him, and he crumpled to the floor. Geralt narrowly caught himself and knelt on the cold stone, his fingers clawing into the rock. The sudden movement made his stomach heave and he retched.  
“We will eat together. Clean him up and tell Caranthir to take away the blinding spell.” With that last order, Eredin strode from the room. His robes swishing past the Witcher and leaving a dissipating scent of ice and frost.  
The hands gripped him again under his arms and pulled him up. Dragging him to a different part of the palace, he could sense how his surroundings changed their smell. From cold stone and fear to a light fragrant smell that reminded him of someone. The Witcher couldn’t remember who.  
  
It took all his remaining strength to stand still when a well known presence entered the room. The general moved in close.  
“You are lucky that Eredin chose to speak to you. But I guess you will be back in your cell sooner or later. And I will be waiting.” Cold, hard lips pressed themselves on the Witcher’s neck and sucked at his pulse point before Caranthir stepped back. Geralt bit back the moan that threatened to escape him.  
Caranthir started murmuring, and then a sudden white bolt of pain pierced Geralt’s brain and he couldn’t help but scream. His eyes felt like someone had thrust long steel needles through them straight into his brain. Trying to get rid of the pain, his hands flew up and clawed at his face.  
“Stop that. I just removed the spell that blinded you. Your eyes and brain will take a while to get accustomed to seeing again.” Caranthir’s voice sounded slightly amused.  
Taking deep breaths the Witcher calmed himself. Slowly his eyes adapted to the light. They were standing in an airy room, white columns supporting the roof and tiles covering most of the floor and walls.  
Intricate mosaics were set into the walls at regular intervals - swirling patterns of color that seemed to reflect the bright sunshine from outside. It was so different from the world below, there was no coldness, no damp, and - most notably - no pain.  
At last Geralt turned to the figure looming by his side. His body wanted to shrink away from the mage but the Witcher didn’t let it show.  
“You still look ugly as hell.” he rasped out, which earned him an amused snort from the elf.  
“If Eredin ever tires of you, it will be my absolute pleasure to take you as my pet. You are much too enjoyable to simply be killed.” The elf’s eyes shone with something very strange - a sort of affection, as he lifted his hand to put it under Geralt’s chin. “I am quite sure, Eredin wouldn’t object.” He paused searching for something in the Witcher’s eyes. “But for now, you are his. I don’t know if it will be better for you or worse.” With that he dropped his hand and turned, leaving the room to the Witcher.  
  
Not being used to move around freely, let alone see where he was, Geralt turned slowly on the spot, to examine the place. It soon became clear that he was in a bath house of sorts. Large stone tubs lined the walls and a fountain in the middle was surrounded by wooden benches with delicate carvings of leaves and flowers on their backrests.  
The door opened again and two young men entered - both human. Approaching the Witcher cautiously, they kept their eyes to the ground.  
One of them indicated the tubs at the walls “We are here to help you bathe. Would you mind taking off your clothes? You will receive new ones.”  
Geralt looked down at his body. His trousers and shirt were mere rags; torn, dirty, and his shirt in particular was stiff from his dried blood. Carefully he started to undress himself. At one point the two men started to help him. He was then led to one of the steaming stone tubs.  
Without help he would have just dropped over the edge and drowned for sure. The scalding hot water had him moan when it hit his skin. After a while he felt his arm being lifted and opening his eyes he saw one of the men starting to rub off the grime on his skin with a soaped cloth. He decided to let them do with him whatever they wanted. For the very first time in ages he felt like a human being and not like an experiment or toy that could be discarded at the end of the day.  
The man continued to scrub his skin and when it seemed that there wasn’t a spot left, he helped Geralt out of the tub and into the next one. This one slightly cooler. When the Witcher saw the turgid, brown liquid that remained in the first tub, he understood why they had him switch to a fresh bath.  
  
Again he was left to soak. Geralt began to check his body - he was sure to find a plethora of new scars after Imlerith’s special treatment. But to his astonishment there was basically nothing. Only a few, already well healed white lines showed, where the elf’s knife had cut deeper. His skin looked like nothing had happened during the last few weeks. The only sign of his imprisonment was the weight he had lost. He could count his ribs and his hipbones were rather prominent. To get back to his old form would take a considerate amount of time and effort.  
After a while the Witcher was taken to yet another tub and again he was soaped up and the other man started washing his hair and trimmed his beard. None of them ever spoke, and Geralt decided that he didn’t want to, either. When he finally rose from the last bath, he was dried off with soft towels and shown to his new clothes.  
Definitely of elven make, they were made of some beautiful, soft and silken material. Different shades of grey and silver were set off with black. A pair of soft grey leather boots finished his outfit.  
With a slight bow both men left the room, and two guards who had been waiting outside entered. Sighing, Geralt moved between them and was led from the baths. He managed to walk on his own but slowly. Saying nothing, the guards just adapted their strides and let him set the pace.

They didn’t walk for long, but to Geralt it felt like he had just ran up Bald Mountain in heavy armor. He could feel a drop of sweat collect between his shoulder blades and his heart was racing.  
Although he was expecting the room where he was to meet with the king, to be breathtaking, he had to admit he was stunned. It wasn’t a really a room, more a terrace that seemed to reach out into the surrounding world. Only a few slim columns support a translucent roof and along the curved end he could see a pool with the water flowing over the edge, seemingly disappearing into nothingness. There was no furniture, aside from a low table and a slew of cushions in muted colors. Seemingly at random placed carpets with delicate patterns covered the seating area. A small fire burned in a metal bowl set into the floor. It was clearly more for effect than warmth. A few vases with flowers dotted the area and spread their smell. He felt a small pang at the aroma of lilac and gooseberries. But then, he had smelt only his own stink for the last month, so every other smell was more than welcome.  
Eredin stood in the middle of the room, hands behind his back. His face was calm. His guards left Geralt to stand a few feet away from the king, and retreated to the edges of the room. The elves knew clearly that he posed no threat whatsoever to their ruler in his current state. 

“Finally I get to see the place above ground. Truth be told, it does look a bit better than your dungeons. I particularly like the airiness. The torture room seemed pretty stuffed at times.”  
Slowly Geralt moved over to the table and cushions and just plonked himself down.  
“I hope you don’t mind if I prefer to sit. Your generals have somewhat depleted my strength.”

Eredin remained standing and a small smile played on his lips.  
“Quite astonishing that you even managed to walk here by yourself. I had expected that my men would have to carry you here. You may sit, I will show you the sights later when you have regained some of your strength.”  
Geralt huffed “You want to feed me back up for your generals? I know that Caranthir would love to continue with me. Although Imlerith seemed to have gotten bored of cutting me up lately. Haven’t seen him for a few days.”

Moving over, Eredin sank down on a cushion - his movements elegant and smooth. “Imlerith is currently on a raid. He will be back within a few days and I am quite sure he would love to join your little group again.” The king picked up a plate and put some food on it. “Please, help yourself. I am sure you would like to add something different to your diet.”

Geralt’s eyes travelled over the assorted platters. Most of the food he had never seen before. Carefully he chose some fruit and bread, staying away from the heavier meat and sauces. Taking small bites he waited for his stomach to complain but when nothing happened he cleared his plate quickly and went for seconds. He didn’t give a damn about looking like a greedy kid stuffing his face but his body needed sustenance more than anything. Only after he had emptied the second plate, he looked back up at Eredin. The king had only nibbled on his food and watched him intently.  
With a gesture that encompassed the whole room he asked “You like elven architecture? I understand it is similar to the one on your world, just… less crumbled.”  
Tilting his head slightly he continued “I had this room prepared for you. You will stay here for the next days.” 

At this Geralt raised his eyebrows. Looking around he scoffed “Don’t expect me to thank you. Although it looks and smells nicer than the dungeons.”  
Eredin smirked “I am glad it is to your liking. The smell from the flowers is particularly delightful, don’t you think?” His eyes suddenly shone like a raptors, waiting for it’s prey to move the wrong way. Geralt was puzzled “Yeah - it smells good.” He conceded, not sure what the king had expected him to say. From the way the king relaxed it was clear that his answer had somehow been the right one.  
Taking a soft fruit that resembled a peach from one of the plates Eredin bit into it, the juices flowing down his chin. Again Geralt felt like being tested when the elf continued “You will stay here, and your sessions with Caranthir will continue.” Geralt felt dread and something else settle in his gut. He ground his teeth.  
“Why did I suspect you’d say something like this. Torture chamber by day, elven suite by night. Is that your version of carrot and stick?”  
This time Eredin laughed out loud - it was a rather unusual sound, light and airy without any of the coldness or malice that usually filled the elf’s voice. It sounded unaffected, even natural, and Geralt wondered, if there was another side to the king of the Wild Hunt.  
“I am truly sorry to disappoint you - but we have no need to rely on such primitive methods. You could avoid those sessions rather easily, by the way. Just join the Hunt.”  
The silence in the room was rather tangible. 

“Never.”

Geralt’s voice was cold and his eyes had locked into Eredin’s icy orbs. None of them said anything.  
After a few moments that seemed to stretch into hours, the elf finally nodded “I had hoped you would answer differently. But Caranthir told me it was unlikely at this stage. Very well. You will remain here.”

And with that he rose, and without another look at the Witcher left the room. Geralt remained seated and tried to get his mind around the look the king had given him before he had left. A strange kindness had crept into his face, the lines around his hard eyes softening and something like empathy and sorrow shining from those white depths. Just as if he didn’t want to have his generals continue their torture - but then Geralt decided that he must be wrong and that his addled mind had played him.  
With a groan he got up from the floor. Silently he cursed the elves for not having decent furniture like tables and chairs, where getting up was so much easier. The guards had disappeared together with the king, but his senses could detect movement and breathing from outside the door. At least four different heartbeats - so they still didn’t underestimate him. Actually they rather overestimated his current status. He doubted he could even lift a sword, let alone fight with it.  
  
Slowly he began to walk around the room, examining it. A small alcove contained something resembling a bathtub and wash stand. In another alcove he found a bed, or what elves seemed to think constituted a bed. Although the mattress and cushions looked incredibly soft and inviting. And the thick blankets would warm him better than the thin rag he had for himself in the dungeons.  
At last he went over to the edge of the terrace. The water from the pool disappeared into a narrow trench which wasn’t visible if you didn’t stand directly at the water’s edge. It was the sort of impressive architecture one expected from the elves. Taking a deep breath of the cool evening air he looked at the serene city below him. In the distance the last rays of the setting sun lit up cragged mountain tops, covered in clouds. The only sound he heard were birds which swooped around him, dipping low towards the roofs of the city before rising again, constantly dashing to and fro with eerie cries. It was so beautiful, he hated it.

With a sigh he returned inside and went to the bed. But he changed his mind before he reached the alcove and moved to the platters full of food. But he wasn’t looking for something to eat. Sniffing on the various decanters that stood on a low table, he grinned when he finally smelled something familiar. Not bothering with a cup he lifted it to his lips and took a deep swig. The alcohol burned his tongue and his throat but he also felt the warmth spreading immediately through his body. He closed his eyes and groaned.  
Grabbing a cup he went to the bed and made himself comfortable. Tonight he would drink himself to a stupor - and not think about what expected him tomorrow. Filling the cup he emptied it in one long gulp. He didn’t know when he finally fell into sleep, the empty bottle and cup rolling from his hands, and his body slowly sliding down onto the mattress and curling up.

He dreamt. It was a good dream. Which was somehow unexpected. The soft body of a woman was pressed against his. He felt her breasts and hard nipples under his calloused hands and stroked the warm skin at the inside of her thighs, which parted willingly for him. His fingers found her wet folds and she arched her back into him. Their bodies moved together. He pushed himself into her tight, wet heat and her hips met his every thrust. Occasionally one of them would moan or sigh. Apart from that only the sound of flesh meeting flesh would penetrate the silence. He felt her fingernails rake along his shoulders and threw his head back, teeth bared. Her lips were lightly sucking at his throat and he could feel getting ever closer to his release. With a cry he buried his cock deep inside her, emptying himself into her, and he felt her contracting around him, finding her own release. Pulling her into to his chest, he buried his nose in her raven-black hair. He wanted to say something, but was lost for words.  
A faint smell of lilac and something else filled his mind when he woke up.  
He lay in the silence of the room chasing the feeling that had filled him in the dream. But no matter how hard he tried, he could not tell what it had been. It was something more than lust, something deeper, more intense. And somewhere in the depths of his mind he was certain, he should have known that woman, should have called her name as he came, should have known how she liked to be touched. But the last tendrils of the dream disappeared into the clear, cold night outside. Only a faint echo remained, like the screams of the small birds.  
Geralt burrowed down into his blankets and fell asleep again.

His breakfast the next day were the remains from his evening meal. It was still indefinitely more edible than the gruel that had sloshed in his bowl in the dungeons. He was already waiting and standing in the middle of the room, when the door opened and guards came in. He let himself be shackled and was led outside. 

This morning the had the chance to appreciate the building and it’s surroundings. He was led through a series of corridors and beautiful gardens until his guards reached a tower. Spiraling stairs led up along the inside walls until they ended on a ledge that must have been near the top of the tower. Geralt was seriously winded before they reached the top. A single door indicated a room at the very top. Upon entering he recognized Caranthir standing at a window in the airy room. Beams of light were cast through the windows and various flowers in clay pots lined the walls. The room would have been beautiful and serene had there not been a length of chain with a hook at it’s end hanging from the roof and a drain in the floor right underneath it. A series of deeply disturbing images decorated the walls. Geralt couldn’t really make out what they depicted, but they seemed to watch him from their dark, unfathomable depths. Red streaks of color looked like rivers of blood meandering through a nightmare landscape with bone-white trees stretching their limbs towards an eternal hell. 

Only when Caranthir spoke could Geralt tear his eyes from those images.  
“Welcome to my personal laboratory. I decided that as long as Imlerith won’t be joining us, we could continue our sessions here.” He motioned to the guards who immediately pulled the Witcher towards the middle of the room and, lowering the chain, hung his shackles from the hook, before pulling the chain up again. When the Witcher was on the tip of his toes they wanted to stop but Caranthir motioned to them to pull the chain even higher.  
Geralt’s shoulders protested when he swung freely and all his body weight rested on his arms.

Then the session started. He lost his consciousness only once during the whole day.  
For some reason it appeared to the Witcher as if Caranthir was searching for something. But he never knew what the elf was looking for. And the mage never said a word during the whole session, aside from his incantations. The only voices Geralt ever heard, were his own screams echoing in the room, and Vesemir’s suggestive whisperings to stop resisting and to simply give up. He ignored the old fool.

When he was finally released from the chain, Geralt simply dropped to the ground. His shoulders and back screamed in agony, and he wondered in a still working part of his rational mind, how he could have survived being suspended by his arms for so long, without his breathing stopping at one point. He never found the answer, though, as his guards pulled him up and dragged him towards the door. The thought of being dragged down that staircase in his condition had him trying to fight the pull of their arms.  
Caranthir seemed to share his sentiment “Stop. In his condition he will most likely fall down the staircase. You will use a portal.” And with that a shimmering surface of blue erupted in the room. Now Geralt would have preferred the staircase but his guards would have nothing of it. Dragging him through the portal they ended up right before his room. The Witcher was now nearly unconscious. Portals simply didn’t agree with him. He was dragged inside his room and unceremoniously dumped on the floor.  
When Geralt looked up he saw the two young men from the baths approaching him. They pulled him to his feet, undressed him and lowered him into the tub in the alcove. The fragrant, hot water released some of the tensions in his sore muscles and he relished it.  
Just like the day before, he was scrubbed clean, had his hair washed and his beard trimmed. Then they helped him into new clothes - the old ones hadn’t survived the day.

Again fresh food awaited him and he was joined by Eredin. He tried to hide the bone-deep tiredness that had settled into his body, but when he failed to answer the elf for two consecutive times, Eredin suddenly stood up. Geralt felt incredibly heady and as if he was actually floating above the whole scene. He could somehow see himself, slumped on the cushions, head dropped to his chest. Behind him Eredin held up a hand and murmured something. White cold light glinted for a heartbeat between his fingers before it was gone again.  
Geralt felt nothing. He was completely disconnected from everything - his body, the room, this world, even his soul.  
Somehow that was good. 

Groaning he opened his eyes. The last thing he remembered was that strange feeling of disassociation, and that Eredin had left without taunting him or asking him to join the Wild Hunt. Still lying on the cushions he slowly managed to get to his feet and, grabbing a bottle, he slowly walked to his bed. Drinking straight from the bottle, not bothering with a cup, he tried to remember what else had happened before. He must have slept for a few hours, it was still dark and quiet outside. His vision finally blurred, and with a sigh of relief he fell back to sleep.

A hand on his shoulder shook him awake - one of the men from the baths was there. “The king is expecting you this morning. We are to bring you to him.”  
Blinking a few times, Geralt tried to shake the cobwebs of sleep and alcohol from his mind. His head was pounding but somehow he welcomed the feeling. Finally a kind of pain that he had inflicted on himself. Again he wondered how he could feel so unaffected by the torture from the day before. His body was good at healing itself rapidly, thanks to his mutations and potions but here he rarely got a healing potion from the elves. Only when Imlerith had caused actual physical injury by cutting him up, he was given something to help him heal. But Caranthir’s methods were never physical although each single nerve, bone and muscle in his body screamed in agony.  
Somehow he suspected that Caranthir’s powers were mostly over his mind and that the pain was an illusion - unfortunately his body didn’t know that. 

After getting dressed he followed the two men outside, where they were joined by his four guards. Their quiet procession ended in front of a magnificent archway. The two men stayed behind and he went on with the guards in tow. From the furniture he suspected this to be some kind of library. A desk overflowing with parchments and scrolls stood near a large window. The walls were lined with bookshelves and each and everyone was filled to the brim with leather-bound folios and scrolls.  
A small low table in a corner held various writing equipment and in front of it a young elven man was busy writing. The scratching of his quill on the parchment was the only sound. 

The elven guards positioned themselves closely to Geralt, so he wouldn’t start wandering around by himself. 

Just when he was contemplating how he would dispose of guards number three and four after he already had thrown one and two out of the window, Eredin entered. An elderly female elf, carrying a wad of parchments was following him. 

Eredin smiled when he saw him.  
“Good of you to join me. Please, I would like to show you something.” He dismissed the woman and invited Geralt to join him at the desk.  
The guards stepped back immediately and Geralt moved closer to the king. He was wary and couldn’t resist to ask “Somehow I was under the impression that Caranthir is to entertain me during the day. You already tired of the evening shift?”

The king raised his eyebrows and his white eyes shone with an intensity that made the Witcher tighten his pupils into slits and stare right back in defiance.  
“I wanted to show you something - Imlerith has returned with the Hunt from your world. He brought a few slaves. If you are to stay with the Hunt you will get someone to take care of your needs - maybe you want to pick yourself a servant?” Eredin looked at a few of the parchments on the table, clearly giving Geralt time to process that offer.

Having his own servant didn’t sound too bad - they could make sure that he made it to his bed in time. Maybe even warm it on cold nights. He never before had someone to do all his bidding - slavery was rather frowned upon in the Northern Realms. He knew he had abhorred it at one time but now he couldn’t fathom why. Those people were clothed and fed and although they were no longer free, it could be mostly attributed to bad luck that the had ended up the way they did.

“If I should stay with you, that is.” Crossing his arms he waited for Eredin’s reaction. The king leant back on the table and smiled. “When you join us, yes. I somehow doubt that this question deserves an ‘if’.”  
He suddenly straightened up and started towards the door “Come on, I will show you what we have got.”

A strange tingling ran down his spine as he stood before a group of humans. Huddled together they tried to avoid the eyes of the elves that surrounded them. Geralt could hear some of the elves discussing which human they would want for themselves. They were mostly very young, even children but a few older men and women as well. It was clear that they all were terrified. Geralt silently huffed at their weakness. 

A young woman with red hair suddenly looked up and straight into his eyes. Her cheeks were wet with tears, and she raised a trembling hand to her mouth at the sight of the only human amongst her captors.  
“Please, Sir, help me. You are a Witcher, why aren’t you fighting these monsters.” Geralt tilted his head slightly and looked her up and down. “I will take her.” he informed Eredin, who had remained behind him. One of the other Elves who had liked to claim the girl for himself was about to object, but then saw Eredin behind Geralt, and decided he didn’t want her that much after all. 

Shouting from one side of the group drew the Witcher’s attention. One of the young men - hardly 14 years old, had tried to attack one of the riders of the Hunt. He didn’t stand a chance - the elf grabbed him by his throat and easily lifted him up, feet dangling. The boy, because he really wasn’t more, tried to pry the iron-clad fingers from his neck. The shout that had drawn Geralt’s attention had come from another boy in the group, who was held back by another elf. “Stop, you monster. Leave my brother alone. I will k-k-kill you.”  
He sobbed more than he shouted when he dropped to his knees “Please, please,… I beg you.”  
The elf who had his brother by the throat looked at him as if in thought. Then he looked back at the boy he held up. By now the movement of the thin body had considerably slowed and the hands only grabbed meekly at the elves arms. Turning his eyes back to the boy on the floor the elf gave a shrug, and the muscles in his arm bulged as he tightened his fist. The thin neck of the boy snapped with a sharp crack and his body went completely lifeless. The elf dropped the body to the floor and stepped over him.  
“I will take you then. I have no need for two slaves.”  
With that he produced a pair of shackles and the still completely shell-shocked boy let him bind his hands, and stumbled behind him as he was dragged away.

The Witcher only looked at the still form on the floor for a few heartbeats before his eyes turned back to the girl. He had no interest in those boys, he just wanted that girl.

None of the other humans tried to resist after that. They were all shackled and led away by their new owners. Only the red-haired girl remained, looking at Geralt and Eredin with a terror-stricken face. Eredin then motioned to one of his guards who stepped forward and shackled the girl’s hands. Before she was led away, Geralt checked the palms of her hands. There were callouses, and skin used to hard work, so she had been taken from a farm or another simple home. She would do just fine.  
Eredin looked at Geralt with a sly smile on his face and the Witcher felt as if he had just passed a major test. “She will be ready for you. Whenever you join us.”  
Geralt looked at the back of the disappearing girl, the swing of her hips, and his lips curled in a small smile.  
When a tiny voice at the back of his mind started to scream, he ignored it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading to all of you.  
> Looks like Geralt has already started to forget some of the most important things. Imagine Eredin being the cat who got the cream. He even might think he succeeded already - but has he really?  
> Guess we will know after the next chapter.
> 
> See you then.


	3. How the mind works

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Looks like the Aen Elle are getting somewhere with their pet Witcher. 
> 
> But things are often not what they seem. Neither for the Wild Hunt nor for Geralt.

His guards escorted him back to his room and he was left alone. When the sun started to set, food was brought in, but Eredin didn’t join him. Geralt wasn’t particularly surprised. His mind was still occupied with the young woman. Her body taunted him in his thoughts - her face never quite visible. He shoved her image to the back of his mind - her soft, pliable body would soon enough be his anyway. Sitting himself down, the Witcher started to load his plate with hot steaming food and the smell had him forget even the tantalizing sway of her hips.

After eating his fill, Geralt walked over to the pool on the terrace’s edge. Lowering himself down on his knees he looked at the peaceful city below him. He rubbed his hands over his face and when his fingers touched metal he was at first surprised, but then remembered the collar. He had nearly forgotten about the warm, thin metal that enclosed his throat. Trying to remember when he last felt the pain it induced, he soon gave up. He just couldn’t remember anymore. Days, weeks, it all was just one jumbled knot in his brain. He dimly remembered to have hated the collar at the beginning - the feeling of metal on his skin, the tiny barbs, the pain it inflicted on him. But now there was only acceptance. It had become part of him. 

Feeling a strange serenity settle down on him, he knelt in front of the smooth surface of the pool and closed his eyes. Decade-old habits took over and he prepared himself to meditate. It didn’t even occur to him that he might not be able to, due to Caranthir’s magic and the collar. And somehow, it worked. Slowly he was relaxing his body into the trance of meditation, and his mind followed suit. How long he remained like this, he didn’t know. 

The clang of metal on stone had him resurfacing, and suddenly his mind was filled with faces and voices - Vesemir, Triss, Ciri - but mostly Yennefer, as the smell of lilac and gooseberries that permeated the room filled his senses. In front of him, on the marble stone floor lay the collar - split at the seam.  
Then other, more recent faces invaded his mind - remembering the sound of the snap of the boy’s neck made him groan. His brother’s helpless wails and, most of all, the silent accusation in the girl’s eyes as she was led away and he just stood there - a Witcher, a monster-hunter, not doing anything to help her or the others, betraying them.

Guilt crept up at him - how could he have let that happen in the first place. He remembered only too well how he had leered after the girl. Now he knew, she had reminded him of Triss. What had those bloody Aen Elle done to him, to make him so void of any empathy or emotion, besides the most base feelings?  
Although emotions were subdued by his mutations and he had trained hard to control even the last shred of feeling, lest it might tarnish the control he had over his mind and body, he had never been truly emotionless. Although the Witchers always took care to spread that old myth it was just that - a myth. His feelings had always run deep - for his friends, his lovers and his foes. To experience the true absence of emotion, as he usually only pretended, horrified him.

The sound of a banging door had Geralt lift his head. Eredin and Caranthir had entered the room - behind them a dozen guards filed in, and took up position in a wide circle around the Witcher. Geralt was still on his knees, his cat-eyes burning bright and his hands clenched into fists in his lap.  
One look at Caranthir’s face told him that the elf knew his magic had failed. Pure, unadulterated hate shone from his eyes.

When the Witcher drew his eyes away from the navigator and focused on Eredin, he found no such feelings there. Instead a coldness that sent a shiver down his spine, filled the pale eyes of the king. But his voice was tinged with a pang of regret when he spoke.  
“This should not have happened. I had hoped we could retain some of your personality, and you would still join us out of your own free will. Unfortunately now Caranthir will have to break you completely. And I had been hopeful that this step wouldn’t be necessary. You passed all our tests. There was no reaction to the flowers and their smell, you had started to despise your old teacher and then you proved yourself again yesterday. Standing by, and just watching as the boy was killed seemed to prove my theory that we could separate your mind, and only destroy part of it, before we build it up to suit our needs.”

He sighed and turned to Caranthir.  
“It pains me deeply to admit my mistake.” He bowed is head to the navigator, who stood there, eyes still fixed on Geralt. A sneer crept over his face at the last sentence of his king.  
“It was my mistake as well. I should have known that even though everything seemed to work, there would be some obstacles to overcome. Maybe I was too distracted the last few times?”  
Caranthir didn’t explain what had distracted him but Geralt knew, and heat started to pool in his groin. Even though the grip of the mage on his mind seemed to have lessened, if not altogether disappeared completely, there was still some form of conditioning that remained. He ground his teeth.

“You should have killed me the moment you had me. Saved us all quite the hassle, if you’d done so.” Slowly he rose to his feet. He still felt weak, but at least he had his mind back, and he was determined to go down fighting. 

When Geralt attacked, he was still incredibly fast. Despite his expectations, his Aard sign actually worked, and hit the first two guards straight in the chest, sending them flying across the floor. He didn’t hesitate to send a barrage of Aard and Igni against the rest of the guards, and he managed to down three more.  
The first two were slowly trying to get back to their feet, but he was on them before they could fully shake off the effect of his sign, and knocked one clearly out before kicking the second one in the face, breaking bone. 

Feeling something behind his back, he threw himself into a roll to dodge whatever attacked him, and when he came back up, he saw the injured guard being engulfed in a wall of green flames. Caranthir screamed his disappointment at not having hit his prey.  
Geralt dodged again, and coming back up beside one of the guards who were still trying to get their heads around what had just happened, he drew the elf’s sword from it’s sheath and in the same movement slashed it across another guards chest.  
The elf stumbled back from the impact, although the blade had glanced off his armor. 

Then the surprise effect of Geralt’s lightning quick attack had worn off. The remaining guards closed in on him. From the corner of his eyes he could see Caranthir preparing a spell, the crystal in his staff shining brightly. If he wanted to get out of there, he needed to act quickly.  
Starting to pirouette so fast that the eye could hardly follow him, he attacked the guards. Every one of his attacks hit it’s mark. Feeling that his body wouldn’t be able to continue this for long, his fingers formed the sign for Igni again and he cast it against the advancing elves.

Only to have himself engulfed in the resulting flames. He screamed when the fire licked at his skin. He felt his hair being singed away and smelled the horrible stench of blistering flesh.  
The guards backed away immediately, careful not to be caught up in the inferno. Geralt had dropped the sword and desperately tried to put out the flames on his body.  
A gust of ice-cold air suddenly blew over him and threw him to the ground. The flames were extinguished but Geralt remained on his back, trying to regain his senses despite the agonizing pain. Looking down at his arms he saw raw flesh and black skin, still blistering. A moan escaped him, and he felt his body starting to shake uncontrollably as he went into shock.

“Caranthir, that is enough.” came Eredin’s drawling voice. “I think he has learned his lesson.”  
Still shaking, Geralt suddenly only saw healthy, unburned skin on his arms. The stench of his burning flesh had dissipated and the pain was only a faint echo.  
Incredulously he looked up at Caranthir who towered over him. The Witcher had never before seen or experienced an illusion this powerful. And he definitely never wanted to, again.

He felt himself lifted by an invisible hand around his throat until his feet barely touched the ground.  
Caranthir sent him flying across the room and Geralt crashed into a wall. The impact had him feel a few of his ribs crack, and all air was pushed from his lungs. This time the pain was no illusion. The Witcher barely caught himself on hands and knees before another, equally powerful wave hit him, and he was again lifted up and smashed into the wall. He crumpled to the floor and remained there. Before he passed out, his last thought was that finally he knew what a monster felt, when it was hit by one of his signs.

 

Voices were talking in his head. They debated heatedly - about what, he had no idea, mostly because it all sounded like gibberish to him. Only after a while he recognized the special dialect of Elder Speech the Aen Elle used. Not really understanding what was going on, Geralt tried to open his eyes. The first thing that came into view was the rough hewn stone floor of his old cell. Sitting on the floor, his back to the wall and his arms chained to the walls he could hardly move. His cracked ribs didn’t like the position either and were complaining with every breath he took.  
The voices belonged to Caranthir and Eredin, who were standing in a corner of the cell, debating heatedly.

Geralt decided that they had discussed enough. 

His voice sounded gruff and flat when he looked up at them.  
“Didn’t take you long until you had enough of me, elf. What was it? My conversational skills not up to your standards or did your navigator just act out of spite for you, ignoring your direct orders?”

“Don’t make yourself into something more important than you are, human.” Caranthir sneered at him. His face was distorted by anger and something else. Geralt looked at him and laughed when he realized that the elf felt ashamed for his failure.  
Caranthir made a few threatening steps toward the Witcher but Eredin barked a sharp command.  
“Leave him be. I want some answers before you destroy him.”

The king turned his full attention to the Witcher “Somehow you managed to break the separation in your mind, that Caranthir spent quite some effort on building up. You rendered the collar useless, therefore it opened. He told me that there might show some cracks but the magic was highly unlikely to come down completely. Yet, you have seemed to regain all your memories and emotions. How did you do it?” 

Geralt only huffed dryly “Even if I knew, do you really think I would help you analyze your mage’s mistakes? Maybe you want to try again - start over. Can’t take more than a couple of months. I remember hearing that you have all the time in the world?”  
Imagining to go through everything again made him feel sick but he would endure it. And he would not give himself up again. Not now, when he knew how the elves had managed to nearly draw him to their side. 

Caranthir came closer and looked down at him with a curious expression on his face.  
“Do you really think I would make the same mistake twice? The method I used the first time proved to be flawed. But there is always more than one method to achieve the desired outcome. It won’t be as entertaining as the first, but still, chances for success are high enough. But so is the likelihood of complete failure.”  
He slightly tilted his head “I have heard that to become what you are, human boys go through several trials. And only three out of ten survive? That could be considered a high survival rate when compared to what you will endure next. I have experimented on various subjects. Mostly humans but also beings from other worlds for which you have no names. If only one in ten survived, it was counted as a success. With humans the rate was sometimes even lower.”  
A grin spread on his face, distorting the red tattoos in a strange way “But as you are not really human anymore, there might be some new and exciting findings.” 

He stepped back again. “I will be preparing everything, my king. We should be ready to begin tomorrow. There are a few ingredients for the potions I have to use which are not local, and will have to be gathered from other worlds.”

Eredin tore his eyes from the Witcher, he had been watching him intently. With a slight nod he gave his permission “I will tell Imlerith to take some warriors and come to you for instructions. We shall start as soon as possible.” The strange pale eyes turned back to Geralt. “In the meantime I want the Vatt’ghern back in the palace. Make sure you prepare the room accordingly, so he can be secured. I will not be talking to him down here in this hole.”

With another nod towards Caranthir, Eredin left the cell. His guards followed immediately. Being suddenly alone with the mage set off a strange feeling of anticipation in the Witcher.  
Caranthir only smiled before he came closer. His leather armor creaked when he squatted down in front of Geralt. Lifting his hand, gloved in heavy leather and covered in metal plates, he softly touched the Witchers face. The worn leather and cold iron felt strange on his skin. Caranthir’s metal-clad fingers caressed his cheek. Geralt didn’t even try to move away but leaned into the touch. When Caranthir’s thumb rested on his lips he willingly opened them, and let the cold, hard metal slide inside. The elf’s pupils dilated suddenly and his breathing became harsh. Geralt looked straight into the mage’s eyes, pinning him down with his glare as he started to suck the metal digit. With a groan Caranthir pulled away.

Geralt just scoffed and, turning his head, spit on the floor. “You taste as terrible as you look. And you are so easily entertained, it is really pathetic.”  
Although he had expected it, the slap from the elf’s gloved hand hurt like hell. He continued to smile. From now on it would only be small victories, that he knew for sure. In the end he would either lose to the Aen Elle or to death. He hoped it would be the latter.

 

When they brought him back into the beautiful, airy room a few not so subtle changes had taken place. Where the bed had been he could no longer see a soft mattress but a crude metal cage. It didn’t look long enough to stretch out.  
And from the ceiling hung the all too familiar chain with it’s hook at the end. Geralt groaned inwardly. Spending any amount of time suspended from the chain was not something he looked forward to. 

But as for now, it looked like he would be spared that particular delight. Eredin was already sitting on the cushions in front of the table, which again was laden with food, and pointed to the place opposite him.  
“I would like you to join me for our meal. You are a man whose word can be trusted - do you give me your word that you will not try to escape or fight or harm anyone tonight?”  
The question had Geralt lost for words. The elf would really unbind him and then expect him to sit next to him, making conversation and eat when all that waited for him tomorrow was endless pain and maybe death?  
Eredin seemed to sense his confusion “You will not be freed completely. I am not that much of a fool. Your hands will remain bound before you, but you will be able to eat and drink by yourself. Which is much more civilized than the alternative.” He looked over to the chain.  
“Also - I would like to be able to look you in the eyes when I talk to you.”

Geralt looked intently at the elven king. But he could detect no hint of malice or betrayal from the man. With a sharp nod he agreed.  
Immediately guards opened the shackles at his back and his hands were bound in front of him - only this time with a soft rope. If he had wanted to, he would still be able to do serious damage to the elves but he decided not to break his word. Suspecting some magical barriers and wards being placed in the room, he could imagine that he would hardly make it out into the corridor alive before he was either burned to a crisp or reduced to a pile of lifeless dust.

Slowly he sank down onto the cushions and accepted the cup a servant held out for him. Yet another human slave, who wouldn’t look him into the eyes. However, he thanked the man as he took the cup into his hands. It was filled with something similar to red wine and tasted heavenly. Geralt took another sip and let it roll over his tongue. This drink was more nuanced and refined than any Beauclair wine he ever had the pleasure to sample.

He hummed appreciatively and Eredin smiled, taking a sip himself. “Yes - it is a particularly nice vintage. It is made like wine on your world but from fruit that grows from tall trees up in the mountains. The best bottles are produced when the fruit has already been subjected to the first night frosts. It is delicious, isn’t it?” With that he took another swallow.

They started to eat. Eredin pointing out certain delicacies and if Geralt nodded, the slave would put something on his plate, and cutting it up before he put it on a tablet which was set across the Witchers knees. Geralt could pick up the bitesized morsels with his fingers and after a few tries he found a method to feed himself with bound hands and not look entirely ridiculous. 

The whole thing was incredibly civilized, considering the Witcher was in for another bout of torture by the king’s generals the next day. But for some reason Geralt enjoyed the company, as unlikely as that was, and he enjoyed the food even more. So he just listened when the king talked of his world and his people. And although it was clear that Eredin was a power-hungry individual, he seemed to care deeply about his world and it’s people. He even made his regicide of the old king sound somewhat plausible. Auberon had been old and had lost all interest in the world of the Aen Elle. Eredin had grasped his chance and made sure that the old king met his end. Although the elf didn’t specify how it had happened and if he really killed him himself or if it had been some sort of accident. When Eredin stopped and looked into his cup, seemingly contemplating his involvement in the regicide, Geralt couldn’t stop himself. “So you are basically an usurper? Did your king not have any heirs?”  
A small smile played around the elf’s lips but he didn’t look up from his cup. “Oh, no. There were no children. He tried to father one, though. But he didn’t succeed.”

When Eredin looked back up at the Witcher, Geralt felt as if the piercing pale-blue gaze was trying to reach into his very soul. His back stiffened slightly and his hands clenched into fists.  
The elf’s voice was strangely soft and quiet when he finally spoke.  
“You do know that you will lose, eventually. You either succumb to Caranthir’s magic or you die. There is no other way out - I have seen it in your eyes when you realized it. When Caranthir talked to you - you saw the truth in what he said. You join us as a broken man or you die. But only when I let Caranthir loose on you.”

Eredin paused and Geralt couldn’t help the huff that escaped him. “So now you are going to offer me the ultimate way out of this predicament. If I join you right here, right now, you will keep your mage on a short leash and I will be able to ride with you just as I am. Not broken, not bent - just a Witcher who happens to raid other worlds for slaves.”  
He slowly shook his head and his eyes were burning a deep amber as he quietly continued in a dangerously low voice.  
“Do me a favor, elf. Never try something like this again. I am not some cheap brigand you can sway with your threats. As Caranthir stated so aptly before, I am the result of a brutal selection process. I have endured pain that even your navigator so far was unable to recreate, and because I reacted favorably to the mutagens, my body was subjected to even more experiments and mutations - none of which was exactly painless. If I should die here in the next days or weeks or months - so be it. But I will not give you the satisfaction that a Witcher is riding with you out of his own free will.”

With that he lifted his bound hands. “I would like to sleep now. Care to tell your guards to open the cage for me?”

Eredin had looked at him with a very peculiar expression - Geralt wasn’t sure but it seemed to contain something like respect. Not something the Witcher would ever have expected from the king of the Wild Hunt.  
With a nod of his head Eredin had accepted Geralt’s decision and had left him. The guards who locked him in the cage placed themselves around the room, melting into the shadows. With a sigh Geralt pulled the thick blanket they had left him around himself and tried to sleep. It took some time until his mind finally succumbed and he drifted away.

This time, when she came to him in his dream, he recognized her instantly. 

He woke with her name still on his lips. Laying still in the darkness of the early hours before dawn he tried to ingrain her face, the feeling of her skin on his, and her voice when she came undone around him, into his mind. Burying them as deep as possible, so as to make it impossible for any magic to rip those memories from him. He did the same with his memories of Ciri, her laughter, how he had held her when she had injured herself during her training at Kaer Morhen, the little girl with the biggest heart he had ever seen. His little girl.  
Geralt took all his friends and his memories of them and put them in the deepest parts of his mind, trying to lock them away.  
His cage was only tall enough for him to sit, so he was at least able to meditate - he knelt with his hands on his thighs and let his mind dissolve into nothing. 

 

Instead of bringing him to the torture chamber or Caranthir’s tower, the guards only moved him from his cage to hang him from the chain in the middle of the room. All food and cushions had been removed. Instead of the soft, brightly-colored carpets only cold stone dominated the floor. A small table had been brought in - it was covered in stains and every last bit of it’s surface was filled with bottles and vials. Their contents ranging from clear liquids to dark turgid oil-like substances. 

When Caranthir entered he didn’t bother to talk to the Witcher. He immediately signaled the guards who grabbed Geralt’s head in their gloved hands and forced his mouth to open. The mage took two vials from the table and, pausing shortly to look into the Witcher’s eyes with a burning hunger that filled Geralt’s core with dread, lifted his hand and let the clear contents slowly drop onto the Witcher’s tongue. One of the guards immediately closed Geralt’s mouth and tilted his head back even more - until he swallowed. The contents of the second vial followed in the same way. Geralt didn’t feel anything change yet - he had been prepared for pain or some sort of dizziness. Maybe the potions were too weak for a Witcher?  
Caranthir looked at him and suddenly a grin spread on his lips - at the same time Geralt felt something change. Something warm and wet dropped from his nose to the floor leaving a small red dot. A small prick at the base of his neck started to become more bothersome with every heartbeat. It spread from there into his skull, growing constantly in intensity, sending fiery tendrils to his eyes and every single tooth in his mouth. The pain had him gag. It grew exponentially as if something wanted to get out of his head, clawing it’s way through flesh and bone.  
And then it spread to the rest of his body. He couldn’t hold himself up anymore and sagged with his full weight into the chains. The protest of his cracked ribs was just a small tiny voice in the choir of pure agony that sang through him. The Witcher wasn’t even able to scream - at one point he didn’t even know if he was still breathing. He wanted to disappear into the calm darkness of unconsciousness but somehow Caranthir had managed to block his mind from this easy escape.  
Geralt dimly recalled the guards remove all his clothes and the buckets of cold water that were splashed over him. His body gave up bit by bit. He had vomited until only bile remained and soiled himself. But he didn’t care anymore. Only his mind was still his - he could see Yen’s face before him, her hand raised and touching his face. She caught his painful moans with her lips on his and he let himself fall into her.  
Geralt was with her in his mind, and it didn’t matter the least what happened to his body in the real world. Nothing mattered.  
Then something started to pull at him. Geralt fought to remain where he was, but the pull was too strong. Opening his eyes he saw the elven mage in front of him.  
“I hope I got everything right - I wasn’t so sure about her skin but your dreams did help quite a lot.” he smirked cruelly.  
It took Geralt a few heartbeats to process that sentence - he hadn’t been with the Yennefer of his memories but with an illusion created by Caranthir. Despite his overwhelming weakness he managed a growl at the elf. But his brain refused to cooperate enough to form a coherent sentence.

There was no respite - he was given one potion after another. Sometimes they would cause horrible pain, others would have him laugh without being able to stop or cause hallucinations like he had never seen before. His body was starting to burn with a high fever and the dousing with cold water became more frequent. The only thing he was spared were Caranthir’s touches - when he was lucid enough to realize it, he was incredibly grateful. 

It seemed to go on without pause. At least two nights he hung from the chain and tried to keep some semblance of sanity to his mind but he felt himself slipping away inevitably. When the sun rose high enough to cast her rays in the room on the third day, he was still fighting.  
Fighting against those voices in his head, the unwelcome images of faces he no longer recognized. Strangers, who intruded upon his thoughts from the deepest recesses of his mind. Their faces blending together slowly - the black-haired woman, a little girl, a grizzled old man and a plethora of others. Their voices became mere whispers and their faces disappeared back to where they had come from. 

He was free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK - sorry for the deception. But there was only a short break for the Witcher. 
> 
> I don't know if I will be able to update another chapter this month, because I will be on a trip until the end of the month and I might not have any internet access. So please be patient - this story will continue.  
> Thanks again for reading and commenting!


	4. On his knees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally - the elves got what they wanted. Or better - Eredin got what he wanted. A pet Witcher.   
> Quick chapter with a bit of smut at the end.
> 
> Enjoy!

Geralt didn’t remember when he was taken from the chain or when he was slowly lowered into the warm water of the tub in his room. Neither did he remember the healer coming to look at all the small wounds on his body.   
The first thing he remembered after a long, long time was the sound of the birds outside.

Finally waking up and coming back to himself, to life, took nearly two days. There was always someone there, Geralt could feel the presence of the other person. But they never spoke or did anything. They just were there.

He passed in and out of consciousness, and slowly the black depth of unconsciousness was replaced by the soft darkness of sleep. The first time he came back to himself fully aware of what and who he was, he tried to get out of his bed immediately. His reflexes screamed at him to fight - something horrible had happened and he had to get out of there.   
The dark shadow of the figure that had kept watch beside his bed reacted fast - Geralt was pushed back onto the sheets by strong hands on his shoulders. 

Pale, icy eyes locked onto his “Stay down. You are in no condition to get up, yet.”

Geralt swallowed hard, had Eredin been here all along? He forced himself to relax and the hands withdrew from his shoulders after staying there maybe a few heartbeats too long. 

“Do you need anything? Drink, food? I can have something brought up.” The look in Eredin’s eyes was tinged with concern. The hard, soulless glare had receded somewhere far to the back. Geralt blinked a few times and managed to shake his head, which immediately caused the whole room to swim before his eyes. He closed them and took a few deep breaths to steady himself, before he looked back up at the Aen Elle. 

Deciding to try his voice, Geralt opened his mouth, but nothing came out - not even a croak. He resigned and closed his eyes again. Whatever had happened to him, it seemed that his voice had been one of the casualties. A quiet chuckle had him open his eyes again.

“You will be able to talk again, do not worry. Your voice chords are severely damaged, and Caranthir had to make sure you won’t use them until they are fully healed. It is just a small spell and will be removed in a few days time.” Eredin smiled but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Looking down at the Witcher as if he was searching for something, he remained quiet for some time.

Geralt decided to acknowledge this conversation, if it could be called that, and let out a small huff. Closing his eyes again he tried to get some sort of inventory of his body, and what else beside his voice had been affected by whatever had been done to him. 

He didn’t exactly try to find out what had happened - there was a very dark and twisted part in his memory he tried to stay clear from.   
Finding nothing but a few shallow cuts and nearly-healed cracked ribs, he opened his eyes again to look at the king. Eredin had leant back into the chair he was sitting in and stretched out his legs in front of him. He looked rather comfortable.   
Tilting his head slightly he looked at the Witcher “Find everything satisfactory? Your ribs should be healed by now, and everything else was only superficial. However, you had a severe fever for nearly a week, and your body had to use all it’s reserves to fight it. It will take a few days for you to be able to move around freely.”

At the mention of the fever Geralt’s eyebrows drew up questioningly. Witchers were immune to infections and having a fever wasn’t something he remembered since his trials. 

“You will rest now. A slave will be here at all time, if you need something.” Eredin stood up.   
“We will talk when you are able. There are guards outside, so do not try to leave this room. Once you are well enough, I will send for you.” With that he turned and left the room. Geralt sank back into his pillow and tried to understand what had happened to him. But he was too tired to get very far. Sleep claimed him soon.

He never had liked being bed-ridden. As a Witcher he was used to healing quickly and only the most severe injuries had required him to stay in a bed for more than a few days. Being not injured but still too weak to get out of bed was something he had never experienced, but quickly learned to hate. Whatever had happened to him, it left him with the body of an old man. No strength, no stamina and whenever he tried to get up and walk a few steps by himself, he needed help to get back to the bed, and his muscles - or what was left of them - were trembling. 

It took three days until he was able to walk from his bed to the pool and back without being winded. By that time his voice also started to come back. He was mostly whispering but at least he could ask for something to drink instead of having to sign for it. 

Nearly a week after he first woke up he saw one of the elves again. Until then only human slaves and a non-human healer had been to his room. The healer had tried to talk to him in Elder Speech but Geralt was in no mood to wreck his brain for the right words so he only grunted when he was asked something. The healer left him alone soon enough. 

Therefore he was rather surprised when a familiar figure entered the room. Geralt had been sitting by the pool - half meditating. Since he had woken up he couldn’t enter the full meditative state but only something halfway there. But it was good enough for him to help him collect his thoughts and help his body regain it’s strength.   
He looked up to see Caranthir walking towards him. The elf was wearing his usual grey leather and furs but no armor. Geralt felt something strange twist in his gut when he felt the stare of the elf’s light eyes on him.   
Stopping a short distance from the Witcher, Caranthir remained silent for a few heartbeats. 

“The king would like to see you tonight. You are invited to dine with him. I am here to make sure you are ready.” He didn’t explain what he meant by being ready, but Geralt was quite sure he didn’t mean that the Witcher was bathed and shaved before he was brought before the king. 

“Have you brought me a nice dress to wear when I am to be paraded before your king?” Geralt couldn’t help the snark in his voice. Something about the beautiful, perfect face of the elven mage grated him and made him deeply uncomfortable.

Caranthir looked at him with growing disbelief before he barked out a laugh “Oh, the wolf is still snarling. But I doubt there will be any bite.” 

He turned around and signed to the door where three slaves had been waiting. They entered the room and started preparing the bath and yes, they had brought new clothes. No frilly dresses, however. 

Geralt slowly rose and went to Caranthir until he stopped directly in front of the elf. Looking up into his eyes he smiled “You can tell your king that I am honored and I accept his invitation.”  
Without another word he turned toward the alcove with the tub and started undressing, completely ignoring the mage.

Without another word Caranthir turned and left the room. Geralt smiled when he lowered himself into the warm water. A small victory.

 

He was shaved and then dressed. Black trousers, a dark grey tunic and a long soft leather coat of the same color that was belted at the waist were finished with black boots. Every single piece was of impeccable design and exceptionally well made. It looked nothing like the courtiers doublets he had worn on his world and wearing it felt nearly as good as his own armor.   
He was even given a small dagger that was worn in a scabbard attached to his thigh. Somehow even that small weapon made him feel more like himself again. 

Escorted by half a dozen guards he was led through the maze of the elven palace. It’s splendor and beauty were beyond anything Geralt had ever seen before. All the palaces he had ever been to on his world looked like ramshackle peasant huts in comparison. He couldn’t repress the feeling of contempt that rose in him when he thought about those primitive and petty monarchs, who squabbled over a piece of rock or swamp for decades, killing thousands with their childish whims.

Nothing could have been further from those cold, drafty castles than the dining room he finally entered. Filled with the soft light of hundreds of candles it only contained one piece of furniture - a long, low table that ran along the center, filled with all kinds of food and drink.   
Sat on cushions along it were about two dozen Aen Elle - men and women, who stopped in their quiet talks as soon as the Witcher entered the room. He could feel their eyes on him - curiosity being the prevalent expression.   
But one pair of eyes in particular stood out - their icy-blue orbs shining in something like triumph. 

Eredin sat at the center, wearing a stunning white robe covered in a delicate silver pattern with a light grey tunic and trousers of the same shade underneath. He pointed to his side, were a place was still vacant and his voice rang out clearly through the room “Dear friends, I would like you to welcome our guest tonight - Geralt of Rivia - a Vatt’ghern from the Aen Seidhe world. He might soon be part of the Dearg Ruadhri and ride with us through the worlds.”   
At that a murmur rose in the room. Some of the guests looked at each other in disbelief, others seemed to sneer at the notion of a Witcher in their midst.  
Geralt didn’t bother with their opinions - he went to Eredin and lowered himself on the cushion. 

“I trust you feel better?” The question was clearly more conversation piece than anything else. Geralt chose not to answer but accepted a cup of wine. It was the same vintage as he had shared with Eredin before… before something had happened. He couldn’t remember what but he didn’t really care.   
His stomach growled, and the elf on his other side shot him a scandalous look before whispering something to his neighbor. Clearly the Aen Elle thought him to be nothing but a brute. A primitive warrior from a primitive world. Geralt decided to give them the show they wanted - he piled his plate with everything that took his fancy and then started eating. He wolfed down the contents of two plates before slowing down.   
Some of the Aen Elle laughed at him, clearly amused by his barbaric ways. The only ones to be neither amused or shocked were Eredin and his two generals. Caranthir and Imlerith had already been seated opposite Eredin when Geralt came in, and their eyes had never left him. It was obvious they were on their guard - ready to spring to action should it prove necessary. Imlerith watched him with something like curiosity, like a cat would look at a particularly interesting mouse. The look Eredin shot him was one of pure amusement - the king knew exactly what game Geralt was playing. And he let him do it.   
It could have been a rather relaxed atmosphere were it not for the mage - Caranthir nearly crushed a silver cup in his hands when Geralt locked eyes with him. Hate, lust and hunger warred in his gaze, and the only thing holding the mage back seemed to be the presence of his king.   
At first Geralt considered to tease the elf a bit, but he reconsidered - he still valued his life. 

When he had finally eaten enough, he relaxed with a cup in his hand. After a few minutes Eredin seemed to decide that it was time to introduce some of the Aen Elle to Geralt. The man beside him, who had been so shocked at his barbaric behavior was some lord or other, Geralt really didn’t care.   
Two more court nobles later, and Geralt not even trying to be polite, Eredin had obviously seen enough. He rose from his seat and invited Geralt to join him. The Witcher managed to rise without falling down again - he definitely had had more than enough of the wine. Following Eredin outside he deeply inhaled the cool evening air.

“You really are not meant to be at court.” Eredin’s voice was full of suppressed laughter. “But I have to give it to you - it was highly amusing, to watch all the nobility of Tir ná Lia being shocked by a man who doesn’t care about them. They are not used to being ignored.”

He invited Geralt over to a small fountain where neither noise nor light from the banquet were disturbing the quiet night. 

“They think I am a primitve barbarian - so I gave them what they expected.” Geralt shrugged. “Your generals were not so shocked. They looked rather anxious, but then - they do know me.”   
He turned his gaze to Eredin and added “As do you.”

The king leant back against the banister around the fountain and crossed his arms. His tunic was sleeveless and Geralt could see that his arms were tattooed from his wrists up to his shoulders. It wasn’t the same leaf-like pattern he had seen on Aen Seidhe on his world but similar. And the ink wasn’t black but light grey - only a shade darker than the white skin. 

Geralt had to tear his eyes from the elf’s arms and looked back into his eyes. Eredin held his gaze and a small smile curled his lips.   
“If I have to be honest - I am not sure that I know you.” He crossed his stretched out legs, leaning fully on the banister oozing a nonchalant relaxedness that didn’t seem fitting for the king of the Aen Elle. But then Geralt realized he hadn’t seen the elf alone until now - when he didn’t have to be the king anymore. And then it hit him - he knew exactly what the look in the elf’s eyes was, the short spark he could see there when Eredin didn’t think Geralt would see him.   
So far the Witcher had it always put down as some sort of fascination with him as an exotic being from another world. 

But it was more than simple fascination - it was like the hunger in Caranthir’s eyes but much better controlled and toned down. Geralt wasn’t sure if he should be flattered that not just the king’s general wanted him, but the king of the Aen Elle as well.   
Somehow Eredin didn’t look like he wanted to force himself on the Witcher. But it was clear that he had seen Geralt’s realization. A slight tension was visible in his limbs although he tried to control it. 

Whatever made him do it - Geralt later couldn’t remember. But he slowly stalked over to the elf and his pupils contracted into thin slits as he gazed along the long, hard lines of the elf’s body. His eyes swept over the muscles of his arms and up to the pale eyes, which were the only part of Eredin moving, following Geralt’s every move. The Witcher could hear the increased heartbeat of the other man and a low growl escaped his throat. He pinned the king’s eyes with his own cat-like ones and finally stepped into Eredin's personal space.   
Although the elf was taller than Geralt, in his current position leaning at the fountain their eyes were at the same level. Geralt could see how Eredin’s lips opened slightly. 

Geralt leaned forward “What am I to you? A prize - a trophy to be paraded around? A toy from another world - to be discarded when it’s novelty has worn off?” his voice was only an emotionless whisper.  
When his breath ghosted over the elf’s skin, Geralt could hear the king suck in his breath but when Eredin had processed what had been said to him, he snarled wordlessly and his hand flew to Geralt’s throat. The Witcher didn’t react but let himself be held at arms length from the Aen Elle who had risen to his full height and glared down at him. 

“You are whatever I order you to be. You will be the Witcher to ride with the Wild Hunt. You will kneel down before me and swear fealty to me. You will offer your body to me, to do as I want and you will beg me for more… and you will offer your soul to me.”   
The coldness and sense of absolute power in Eredin’s voice had a shiver run down the Geralt’s spine. It took quite an effort to fight the need of immediate submission, but he managed to snarl back “If you think you are so good that I would come back for more from you, you are really overestimating yourself.”

Eredin definitely hadn’t expected that answer. Growling he threw Geralt back and the Witcher landed on his back on the floor. He stayed there - legs spread, and looking up at the king. If the bastard wanted to play - so be it. He knew that Eredin could see the challenge in his eyes, with his pupils reduced to thin, black slits and the gold glowing in the darkness of the gardens.

The fire in Eredin’s eyes burned hot when his gaze roamed over the prone figure on the ground before him but he didn’t approach Geralt.  
“You will swear fealty to me tonight - in front of the court and you will join the Wild Hunt.” His look became softer “If you can think of anything that is worth returning to your old life - I will ensure that you are returned to your world. Think about it.”

With that he strode back into the palace. Geralt watched him disappear - he wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed at the king’s reaction. Slowly he got back to his feet and, massaging his shoulder where he had hit the stone floor, he moved to the fountain. Taking the place Eredin had occupied before, he remained there thinking.   
For someone with nearly unlimited power Eredin was very adamant that Geralt did what he did out of his own free will.   
Knowing that he wouldn’t be able to get back to his world without help from the elves he seriously considered the offer. But then he couldn’t think of anything that would be worth the trouble of going back. Going back to a life on the path - cold, wet nights, people refusing to pay him, and instead throwing stones and pitchforks at him. He still could feel the metal piercing his gut and it made him sick.   
And he was alone - always alone. A groan escaped him and a sharp, piercing pain started throbbing in his head.   
He ground his teeth and tried to ignore it - he wouldn’t go back to those ungrateful, petty bastards. He was done with helping those who wouldn’t try to help themselves first. For him there was no difference between a peasant who asked for a drowner to be killed, or a king who wanted a cursed relative saved. None of them deserved his help - they were all weak and useless. 

Looking at the door to the brightly lit dining room he made his decision. Geralt went back inside.

 

When he finally knelt in front of the king of the Wild Hunt and pledged himself to him, he could see something like relief in Eredin’s eyes. So the king hadn’t been sure that his game would play out the way he wanted. What was more surprising however, was the pure triumph that showed in Caranthir’s face. Geralt had thought the mage would be appalled by the Witcher joining them. He must have been wrong.

“You will ride at my side, but for now, I want you to train with Imlerith and his men. Teach them how to fight like a Vatt’ghern. And you will learn how to fight like an Aen Elle.”   
Eredin’s mouth curled slightly at the apparent dismay in the Witcher’s face “You will not be reduced to a simple soldier. Your orders will come directly from me. But I want my riders to be the best fighters out in all the worlds. And you will help me to achieve this. Walk with me.” with that the king left the room, not to the outside gardens but into a long corridor. Guards followed them - more than Geralt had actually expected. Somehow he suspected that he was the reason for their increased number. 

Eredin walked silently until they reached a set of large doors. The elves who were posted as guards at the side were the tallest Geralt had seen yet. His suspicion that they had reached Eredin’s personal rooms was confirmed when he entered, following Eredin, who didn’t even check if Geralt was coming.  
The color scheme of the rooms was simple but effective. Only the palest colors were visible, but every shade of grey seemed to blend into a careful composition. Even the few wooden pieces of furniture were of some sort of grey wood, carefully sanded to reveal it’s structure. 

A large desk occupied one side of the room, near the window. The first chair Geralt had ever seen in the Aen Elle world stood behind it. Eredin saw his disbelieving look and smiled “One has to take advantage of what other cultures offer, don’t you think? And for working this beats kneeling on cushions.”  
The Witcher was still looking at one of the large tapestries on the far wall when he suddenly felt a presence behind him. Close, very close. His body stiffened and his voice was raw when he spoke “You want to fulfill your next promise to me?” He didn’t want his voice to sound so raspy but his throat had suddenly closed up. He didn’t turn around, but with a willpower he didn’t thought he had, walked a few steps away from Eredin. 

“What was it again? That I offer myself to you?” He turned and felt like standing in an icy hurricane as he saw the look in Eredin’s eyes. They blazed with a hunger and desire that had every single hair on his body rise. Anticipation curled in his gut and he could feel a familiar pulling sensation in his groin. It seemed that at some point in the past his libido had decided that elves were definitely of interest for him. Powerful, male elves, to be precise. So far he hadn’t felt like that with any of the elven women he had seen.   
And, if he was honest, it had only happened with Caranthir and Eredin. Imlerith did nothing for him, and he felt as aroused watching him as he would watching rock troll. 

But the other two elves had something stir in the back of his mind. Something old and archaic. He knew, if he succumbed to it, it would tear through him like a vampire’s claws. Leaving torn flesh and broken bones in it’s wake. And some part of him wanted that, even needed that. 

Geralt took a slow step towards the elf. Eredin was watching him intently, his teeth bared slightly.   
But he didn’t move a muscle - just standing there and waiting. Like he seemed to be afraid what the Witcher might do. 

Moving very deliberately, Geralt closed the distance between them. But he didn’t stop moving when he had reached the elf. He put his hand to Eredin’s chest and started pushing the man backwards. Pale eyes widened, the Aen Elle let Geralt shove up him up against the wall. Taking one last step that brought them chest to chest, the Witcher’s hand travelled slowly upwards and behind Eredin’s neck. Holding the king in an iron grip, Geralt let the beast inside him finally loose. 

Pressing himself hard against the elf and pushing his knee between the other’s thighs, he pulled Eredin down and sucked those pale lips between his teeth before biting down. He groaned when he tasted the metallic tang of blood and let his tongue invade the hot inside of Eredin’s mouth. 

For a few heartbeats the elven king seemed to submit to the Witcher, but then he pushed himself from the wall, and with one smooth move he turned them around and pressed Geralt against the wall, his hand at the Witcher’s throat and his mouth never leaving the other man’s. 

The movement pushed all air from Geralt’s lungs and Eredin sucked it in greedily. He started rutting against the Witcher and Geralt could feel Eredin’s hard cock slide against his own even through all the layers of fabric they were wearing. The elf’s hand squeezed harder and Geralt could feel how his head got lighter, how he struggled to breathe. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was astonished that he could feel himself getting even harder.

At first his reflexes wanted him to fight against the Aen Elle, but the thing in him shivered at that helpless feeling, it practically purred when it felt that he finally was up against someone who could easily break his neck, and that there was nothing he could do against it. He moaned as his whole body went limp and his cock twitched.   
“Fuck you…” he moaned with his eyes closed, a last form of resistance he managed to wring from his mind.

Everything became blurry and not just from the lack of oxygen to his brain. All he could feel was the hard, hot core of his body and Eredin’s free hand, which had moved into his trousers and had his cock in it’s grip. The elf didn’t move, only his hands were alternating in squeezing Geralt’s throat and cock, before they changed their rhythm and that incredible pressure would synchronize. 

The Witcher’s hands scrambled across the rough wall behind him, trying to find some support although most of his weight was still taken by Eredin’s hand around his throat.   
Strange little whines were starting to tear from his throat whenever he managed to pull some air into his lungs. His hips bucked, trying to get more of that much needed friction to his throbbing cock. But the elf didn’t budge - he kept him as immobilized as possible and that forced passiveness had Geralt going nearly crazy.   
Geralt had never been truly submissive - he could play it, sure, but to really give himself up had never even been an option. And most of the time, his partners had preferred him to be in the leading role, anyway. But this was now all but forgotten, and he relished in his submission to the elf.

With one fluid move Geralt felt himself pulled from the wall and pushed down on his knees. His golden eyes were half-lidded and unfocused. One of his hands reached up and trailed along the elf’s thigh until it met the hard ridge of his erection. A low growl from Eredin was all Geralt needed to focus again, and press his palm against the bulge before he looked up, and with deliberate slowness he moved forward and pressed his mouth against the fabric of Eredin’s trousers. 

Eredin’s hands shot up in Geralt’s hair and held his head while a low hiss escaped the king’s lips. Geralt continued to mouth the other’s cock through the fabric, while his fingers started to undo the bindings of Eredin’s trousers, and when he finally managed to get all that fabric out of the way he didn’t hesitate, but just took as much of the elf’s cock in his mouth as possible. 

The sudden attack had Eredin curse in elder speech, Geralt couldn’t really understand what the elf said but it sounded beautiful to his ears, although he was quite sure it was true gutter speech.   
He busied himself with letting his tongue explore the hot, silken skin. Slowly licking along the underside he paid special attention to the head and sucked lightly at the crown. He began to alternate these soft touches with trying to get as much of Eredin into his mouth as possible.

The king’s hands were still in his hair and their grip became tighter. Geralt could feel that the elf was getting closer.   
Then Eredin, who had so far let the Witcher set the speed, started to fuck into Geralt’s mouth in earnest. Holding his head tight, he pushed deep inside, and Geralt had to strain to accommodate him. But he didn’t resist, just let Eredin do as he wanted. Swallowing around the cock he managed to take him as deep as possible, and the elf groaned as he could feel Geralt’s throat contract around him. His strokes became slower and deeper.   
“Touch yourself.” Eredin commanded, and Geralt’s hand flew immediately to free his own cock, stroking himself with long, strong pulls. His brain was close to shutting down, and he moaned at the feeling of his own calloused hands on him, while his tongue laved along the soft skin of Eredin’s cock. 

Again the elf started to speed up and his thrusts became shallower and more irregular. Geralt’s hand changed it’s rhythm on his own cock to match Eredin’s, and when the elf finally buried his cock deep in his throat and stayed there, forcing the Witcher to swallow the hot, salty spurts of seed, Geralt could feel himself come undone and he came hard, spending himself all over the floor at Eredin’s feet.   
His release had used all the remaining oxygen in his lungs, and with Eredin’s cock still lodged in his throat he felt unconsciousness creep up to him, making him sway on his knees. 

Suddenly his mouth was empty and he dropped onto all fours, sucking air into his lungs and trying to get his brain back on track. His muscles still trembled with the aftershocks, and he wasn’t sure if he would stay upright, if he tried to stand up now. 

A hand under his arm, Eredin helped him up and led him to a chaise in the middle of the room. Geralt just let himself fall down onto the cushions, wondering quietly how such a practical piece of furniture had made it to the elven world.   
He took the cup he was offered, and downed it without checking it’s contents first - if it was water, hell - he was thirsty, and if it was alcohol - even better. 

It was alcohol - rather strong at that. Without a word Eredin refilled his cup from a decanter on a small table. He looked only slightly less composed and menacing than usual. Geralt knew that he himself must look completely debauched and disheveled in comparison.   
Drawing up his eyebrows he croaked “You do that with everyone who swears fealty to you?”   
His throat was definitely worse off than the rest of him. 

Eredin took a cup himself and sat down on the chaise opposite Geralt “Would it make you feel better, if I said yes?” 

“Certainly would make me feel less special.” Geralt took another deep breath. He was still feeling slightly fuzzy around the edges. 

Leaning back and playing with the etchings on his cup Eredin seemed to consider this. “Unfortunately you are kind of special. At least here in this palace and at the position you currently are. And I don’t mean at your knees in front of me.”

“Had worse audiences with royalty.” Geralt stated flatly. 

Thinking about what else could happen between him and the elven king, the beast inside him stirred again, and he could feel it’s need vibrate in his body. His pupils dilated and he knew the elf could see it as well. Geralt didn’t care - somehow he suspected Eredin would want to continue this, too.

“So you wanted not just a Witcher for your riders but also for your bed?” Geralt decided to be blunt about it. At least he wanted to know if this had been a one-time thing or if there would be more to come.

Slowly licking his lips, the elf let his gaze glide over the Witcher in front of him. “I have to confess that thought had sprung to mind. Although I was rather surprised that it happened this quickly. I am rather curious at what else can make you so pliable as you were before. You will spend the night here. And tomorrow you will start training with my riders.”

While he was speaking, Eredin leaned forward and his hand slid slowly along Geralt’s leg and up the inside of his thigh. He was cupping the Witcher’s still half-hard cock when he finished, and at the thought of spending the night under the hands of the king of the Wild Hunt, Geralt couldn’t suppress the shiver that ran over him and he bared his throat to the elf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK - this is the last chapter for a while. I might be able to write but don't know about posting.   
> So there might be an update-spree in November.
> 
> Hope that you will bear with me...


	5. True evil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am back from an amazing trip (if you ever get the chance to visit Russia - do it, it is an amazing country). And here is a new chapter. 
> 
> Extra warning: this contains rape

There are many descriptions of what true evil is. Some see it as the absence of goodness, some as something inevitable in the great equilibrium of the universe and some say it is the inactivity and ignorance of people.   
Somehow they are all wrong.   
And they are all right at the same time.   
True evil is like a void were once goodness has existed, but has been snuffed out like a stuttering candle in the face of an oncoming storm. It thrives in the wake of ignorance and indifference and true evil has no counterpart in the universe - because true goodness never existed anywhere in the universe in the first place. It has only ever been something to cling to in vain for the desperate and downtrodden. For those who hoped that a knight in shining armour on a white steed would save them from their plight. 

But the knights who descended upon the village in the dark of the night were no saviours - and their dull black armour wasn’t shining in the the cold light of the full moon, which was partly hidden behind fast moving, dark clouds. Their swords came down not to save or protect, but to kill and maim anybody who stood in their way. Immune to the wailing and screams from the villagers the raiders collected their bounty - half a dozen young girls and boys, none older than 14. Pulling them up onto their horses in front of them the brutal specters disappeared as fast as they had come, seemingly descending down from the heavens with a severe storm at their back. They had struck the small settlement like lightning, and were gone before the real storm drove the survivors back into their huts. 

The Witcher stood by his horse, a massive black beast, and watched as the boy, who he had carried slung over his saddle, was taken by guards, and herded to the slave pens together with the rest of their catch. Handing the reins to an older man in grey slave garbs he rolled his shoulders and stretched himself. These raids were doing nothing to relieve the constant tension that seemed to originate from the back of his head and spread down his neck to his back. He was looking forward to a relaxing hot bath. A small smile played on his lips - he would definitely find something to relax him. One or more of the three girls he had by now collected would work perfectly to satisfy his needs. 

Just as he wanted to turn towards the stairs that lead to his rooms, Caranthir approached him. The Navigator had him grind his teeth and anger flared up inside him. Geralt’s eyes narrowed, and he gripped the leather of his sword belt across his chest tighter. The elf seemed unconcerned by the Witcher’s apparent dislike of him and stopped just one step too close as would have been necessary to talk to each other. 

“It seems that you have been successful - again.” his voice was without any emotion but his eyes were burning. “I came to give you Eredin’s orders…” now something like glee crept into his voice. “You will make yourself available to me in my tower for a series of experiments I have devised. The king is very interested in their outcome.”

“Did you beg Eredin to let you be the messenger to tell me of this order? Because of the cheap satisfaction it would give you?” snarled the Witcher, his anger rising. Geralt knew exactly what Caranthir’s experiments entailed. He had had the questionable pleasure of being subjected to them before. They usually ended with him being carried unconscious from the mage’s tower straight to the infirmary by the guards.   
But this time he wouldn’t just willingly hand himself over to the sadistic torture of the elf. His anger boiled over and his vision turned into a hazy red mist. His sword flew from it’s scabbard on his back into his hand in a lightning fast move, and Caranthir had no chance in getting his defenses up before the cold steel of Geralt’s blade bit into his neck.   
“If you believe even for one heartbeat that I will let myself be mutilated by you and your sick experiments again, you are very wrong. And fuck Eredin’s curiosity in their outcome.” the Witcher bit out between clenched teeth. 

The other soldiers around them had clearly never anticipated a move like this. Some had drawn their weapons but none had engaged the Witcher in any way. Some were obviously hoping for some kind of command from the mage but Caranthir’s eyes were fixed on the Witcher. A single drop of blood started to run down the elf’s neck, and with a very slow and deliberate motion Caranthir removed one of his gloves, and collected the drop before it reached his tunic’s collar. Lifting the finger up to his eyes, he examined it before he slowly put it in his mouth and licked the blood from his finger.

“What do you want to do to me, Vatt’ghern? Go on, you have the advantage over me. Let your anger flow freely and slice into me. Tear open my throat and watch me bleed to death at your feet. That is what you want, isn’t it?” 

Although Geralt had his blade on the haughty elf’s neck, he felt completely powerless. His anger seemed to overcome his whole being and the blade began to tremble slightly in his hand. With a roar he turned on the spot and his sword hissed through the air. Without meeting any resistance it cut through the neck of the soldier closest to him. The decapitated torso dropped to the ground. Geralt stood motionless until the head slowly rolling on the ground was stopped by his boot. He shook the blood from his blade, turned and strode away towards his quarters. Nobody stopped him. 

He was still angry, killing a substitute hadn’t had any effect towards him getting calmer. He stormed into his room. A quick look confirmed that two of his slave girls were busy preparing the room for dinner. He strode towards them and grabbed the red haired girl, the one which had been given to him by Eredin. Pushing her up against the wall he didn’t even take time to get to his bed. The girl squealed when she saw the still blood-smeared blade in his hand. He sneered and threw the sword onto some cushions, before using both hands to shove her skirt up her thighs. Feebly she tried to push him away. He grabbed her wrists in one hand and held them above her head, effectively rendering her defenseless. His other hand undid the bindings of his breeches and guided his already hard cock to her entrance. He grunted as he pushed inside, she was tight and dry. Ignoring her cries and sobs his free hand pushed under her shift and he caressed her breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers. His mouth searched along her slender neck and he started sucking on her pulse point, his tongue flicking over her soft skin.   
Pushing deep into her with hard thrusts of his hips he could feel how her body slowly adapted to his intrusion and started to lubricate her tight heat. Her screams had succumbed to small moans and sobs. Her eyes were closed and tears had left their tracks on her cheeks. The Witcher slowly licked the salty traces from her skin. She shuddered and a small sigh escaped her. Geralt deepened his strokes and buried his face where her neck met her shoulders. With a groan and one final thrust he came deep inside her, feeling like all his anger left him with his release. 

He let go of the girl and pulled out of her. When he put his clothes back together he noticed that the girl was still standing against the wall, legs slightly spread and trembling. A few drops of blood threaded down the inside of her thighs, mixed with his seed.   
He snorted “Go and get yourself sorted out. Send Yvarre to take care of dinner and I want to take a bath before. I won’t need you tonight, you will sleep in your quarters. Now go.” 

He turned away from her and went to retrieve his sword. The cushions were definitely ruined - the blood had seeped into the silk and added a garish tone to the light muted colors. Geralt cleaned his sword and carefully oiled the blade before putting it back into it’s scabbard. Behind him he could hear the splash of water being filled into the tub. He started to remove his armour and his clothes, dropping them onto the floor. Two young women were standing at the tub, their heads bowed and waiting for his orders.   
With a sigh Geralt sank into the hot, fragrant water. After a few moments he lifted his hand and immediately one of the two sank to her knees and started to scrub his skin with a sponge.   
She continued with washing his hair and then trimming his beard. The tension in his body was nearly gone when he rose from the water and let them towel him dry.   
New clothes had been brought and after getting dressed he sat down to his dinner. 

He had only started at a roast fowl with glazed fruit when the door opened without anyone knocking before. 

Eredin strode into the room, immediately dismissing the two women and stopping before the Witcher. “Would have ordered more wine, if I’d known you’d be coming.” Geralt managed between two bites.   
Completely ignoring the fact that the king of the Wild Hunt was standing in front of him, clearly seething, Geralt took a large swig from his cup. He was just in the mood to tease Eredin to his limit. He didn’t manage it, however. 

Visibly restraining himself, the elf stood in front of the Witcher “You were given clear orders. Why are you still here?”

“Want to hear me scream that badly?” Geralt knew that Eredin would be watching the experiments - if only to make sure that his mage didn’t do something irreversible, like killing the Witcher by accident, for example.   
“You know there are other ways to accomplish that.”

Finally looking up, Geralt swallowed visibly at the heat that suddenly filled Eredin’s eyes “I do - and I will make sure that you will have ample opportunities to do so. But not tonight.”  
The king’s voice grew cold and emotionless “You will follow the guards - without a fight. Or I will have you beaten up and dragged in chains to the mage’s tower. Caranthir will have to use a healing potion or two more on you, but you will spend the night in his laboratory.”

Geralt slowly stood up and stared at the king. The anger had begun to rise in him again. With blazing yellow eyes he entered a contest he already knew he couldn’t win. His defiance had Eredin smile. With a slow and deliberate movement he lifted his hand to the Witcher’s throat. His hand was hovering over Geralt’s skin for a few heartbeats before his cool fingers touched the hot skin.   
Slowly the elf tightened his grip and Geralt could feel the beast stir in his core. A small groan escaped his lips as his eyes lost their focus and his breathing sped up.   
Lowering his head to the human, Eredin licked lightly along the Witcher’s lips. He could feel the tremor racing through Geralt’s body at the touch. 

“You will come willingly.” It was an order that did something with Geralt’s mind and made it impossible for him to resist.   
When the guards entered and Eredin let go of his throat he let them lead him out without any resistance.

Only when they reached the tower room and he was hung from the chain the strange haze lifted and he became himself again - filled with anger and hatred. 

None of the elves ever told him what those experiments were actually about. He suspected that Caranthir only devised them out of sick sadistic pleasure. But why Eredin agreed to them, Geralt was at a loss.

At one point during the night, when he had stopped screaming, and his sweat-covered body hung limply from the chain, he saw Eredin in the shadows, with a look of concern on his face. Turning towards the mage, the king muttered something that even the enhanced senses of the Witcher couldn’t pick up. Then Eredin left the room. 

Caranthir turned back to the wall and started to lower the chain. No longer having his whole weight carried by his arms and shoulders, Geralt moaned and tried for a few seconds to stand on his own, but his legs just folded under him and he crashed to his knees onto the hard stone floor. The pain from lowering his arms was nearly overwhelming and when the elven mage lifted his wrists to open the shackles the Witcher howled in agony. He dropped to his side and lost himself in the world of pain that seemed all encompassing.   
When the elf held a cup to his lips he sucked the contents down greedily - by now he had learned that it would be a fast acting healing potion and that he would do nearly anything to escape the pain.

Caranthir left him lying on the floor for some time. The potion did it’s work in an exceptionally effective way. It was better than any Witcher potion or healing magic from his own world. Geralt started to register the rest of the world around him, the rough floor tiles, the drying sweat on his skin, a slight draft of cool night air from the windows. Slowly he got up but remained on his knees.   
He saw the grey tunic of the elf entering his field of vision. Caranthir crouched down before him, his cold eyes examining the Witcher, looking for something. 

“I’ve decided that I have learned enough from you today. Continuing the experiments would yield no more valuable results. Eredin agreed to leave you here for the rest of the night…” he didn’t continue his sentence. 

“So he’s basically renting me out now.” Geralt croaked. “Guess it was only a question of time.”  
He straightened himself and looked into Caranthir’s eyes. “If you want a taste of what your king is getting… be my guest… and try. You’ll see for yourself how far you’ll get.”   
The Witcher couldn’t bely the fact that he felt a heat pooling in his groin at the look the elven mage shot him. It was different than with the king - very different. 

Caranthir grinned - in a ghastly way, showing his small, too even teeth.   
“Trust me, I will get as far as I want.” And with that he pushed the Witcher onto his back with one smooth movement and his lips sealed themselves over the other man’s.   
Although he had expected something like that, Geralt was somewhat surprised by the strange softness of the mage’s lips and the absence of the usual brutality that exuded from the elf. But he wouldn’t have that - letting his anger run free he bit hard into the other’s lower lip, drawing blood. 

The rather unexpected response from Caranthir was a deep moan before the mage seemed to remember who was underneath him. Grabbing the Witchers arms he forced them over his head, eliciting a painful groan - the healing potion hadn’t completely mended the muscles in the Witcher’s shoulders. The mage started licking along Geralt’s chest - sucking at his nipples and relished in the involuntary thrust of the other man’s hips this treatment elicited. 

Geralt fought back and managed to roll them over, his anger feeding his lust and desire. “I will see you writhe under me and moan my name before I’m finished with you, sorcerer.”  
He pressed his hips into the elf’s feeling their hard cocks sliding against each other. A shiver ran down his spine and with one move he ripped Caranthir’s tunic apart before licking a long stripe along a pale, muscled chest.  
Caranthir arched his back under him, his hands flying to the Witcher’s head, gripping his hair in his fists. Leaving angry red marks by his teeth, Geralt moved down the mage’s body. With a few moves he rid both the elf and himself of their remaining clothes.   
Caranthir suddenly turned them around again, his hand on the Witcher’s throat, pressing slightly in warning. His other hand was slowly trailing down Geralt’s body before he grabbed his cock and squeezed hard. Arching up to the touch, the Witcher’s hands scraped over the floor searching for purchase.   
Caranthir managed to line up both their cocks in his hand and started to stroke them in unison. A slew of expletives was the answer from the Witcher, who started writhing under the elf. Pre-cum made the contact even more intense as both men started to thrust into the elf’s fist. Geralt grabbed the mage’s head in both his hands and pulled him down for a searing kiss, plundering the other’s mouth and sucking hard on the already swollen lips.   
The elf gave back in kind and increased the pressure of his fist while squeezing Geralt’s throat even harder. It made the Witcher whine and jerk his hips in the desperate search of more friction. Geralt could feel through the slight headiness of being slowly choked that the coil of his release was tightening ever more in his belly.   
He pulled his lips away from Caranthir’s mouth and tried to take a deep breath - but the elf’s grip was unrelenting. Geralt felt as if a hot wire was pushed down his spine, his fingernails scraping across the stone floor and a choked up cry tore from his lips before he felt the coil snap and he came harder than he had in quite a while.   
His teeth bore down on the flesh of Caranthir’s shoulder, breaking skin and his whole body tensed, with every single muscle contracting while his cock shot his seed across his belly and chest. His back arched despite the weight of the elven mage on him and his body shook in the exquisite pain and lust his oxygen-deprived brain had mingled together to form something new and excruciatingly satisfying. He could hardly feel when the elf came himself, loosening both his grip on their cocks and on the Witcher’s throat, letting Geralt finally draw a deep, shuddering breath, while his body still spasmed occasionally from the aftershocks. 

When he came back to himself and was able to sit up, Caranthir had already dressed and was busying himself at a sideboard where he filled two cups with wine from a crystalline decanter.   
Slowly Geralt stood up and even managed to get his breeches back on, he didn’t succeed in closing them up, however, his fingers being too numb to thread the leather bindings together. Deciding the elf wouldn’t take any offense anyway, he slowly walked over to the mage who had watched him struggle to dress himself silently. Holding out one cup to Geralt, his lips turned up slightly “I seem to remember that it was I who was supposed to be writhing under you…”  
The Witcher took the cup, emptied it in one go and held it out to Caranthir for a refill.   
“Plough you, elf.” Geralt drank down the second cup and stared at the mage. “You’re the one who’s bleeding and who looks pretty shaken up by the experience.”   
The elf remained silent.

Picking up his boots the Witcher turned towards the door. “If I was you, I wouldn’t try that again. And I prefer Eredin anyway.”  
To his own surprise, Geralt left the mage’s tower unhindered and walked back to his room. Only half-way there he suddenly stopped, and turned into another direction, down another corridor towards another set of rooms. Despite him having recently killed one of their comrades, the guards at the king’s chambers didn’t stop him as he entered through the large doors. It looked as if Eredin had been waiting for him. The king of the Wild Hunt stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed over his chest and looked at him, not saying anything. 

Geralt stopped in front of him and his glare bore into the elf’s pale eyes “Never do that again…” he snarled before he seized the dagger at the king’s side and pressed the razor-sharp blade against Eredin’s throat. He was way too quick for the king to react in time and when Eredin brought up his hands to stop Geralt he only managed to lift them half-way before the cold metal touched his skin.   
“I will kill every ploughing elf in this god-forsaken palace if you treat me like a piece of meat again.” Narrowing his pupils the Witcher brought his face closer to the pale elf.   
“I will never again go ‘willingly’ to your mage. If he wants to plough me, he should tell me straight away and not torture me for half the night so that I am too weak to fight him off.”  
“I have agreed to join your riders and to come to you willingly, but I never agreed to his sick games.” Geralt let the dagger simply drop to the floor. The metal clang of the blade on the marble stone was the only sound in the room. The Witcher turned on his heel and left the room, seething inside. His anger was back in full force.

 

The next morning Eredin had him ride out again on a raid. Geralt felt only slightly better after having ploughed one of his slave girls in the morning. This time he had been more considerate of her body, if only because he preferred when the other person reacted to his touches and movements, instead of lying in bed like a dead fish. And he definitely preferred wet and tight to dry and tight. 

The soldiers he rode on this raid with were unknown to him - but he knew their leader all too well. Imlerith had been gone for quite some time on some special mission for Eredin. The general had only returned recently and was now resuming his command of the raiders. He greeted Geralt with a mock salute and a knowing smile, before he pulled his helmet’s visor down over his red tattoos. 

The Witcher chose to ignore him and checked his swords and cross-bow before taking his place in the cavalcade. At a sign from Imlerith they headed out. Geralt never really saw how they changed into another world, but suddenly they would be riding high above the countryside, seemingly in thin air in nothing but a flurry of clouds and ice. He was glad about the extra cloak and the furs he was wearing. He even had agreed to wear a helmet, although his only had a small visor that left most of his face uncovered. 

When they finally hit hard ground the horses gathered speed - their huge black mounts were a special elven breed that was only used by the Dearg Ruadhri. They were fierce and more predatory than any horse the Witcher had ever seen. And they were incredibly fast. The cavalcade soon thundered through the deserted streets of a small town. It was in the middle of the night and a storm was brewing on the horizon, the first gusts of wind already bending the trees in the central square. The elven riders dismounted and started to plunder the houses that lined the edge of the square. Soon enough they had nearly a dozen children rounded up. Geralt watched as an elf casually kick a woman in the stomach when she tried to hold on to her daughter. He turned around when he saw a group of men emerge from a barn - they carried swords, scythes and pitchforks. A quick pained expression passed over the Witcher’s face when he saw the flames of the torches reflected on the sharp steel prongs. But he quickly drew his steel sword and got to work. 

Like a ghost he moved among the group, and one after the other the peasants succumbed to his blade. They never stood a chance, and most of them never saw their own death approach. Only a few managed to scream when they saw a dark form in black armor rise above them - yellow eyes glowing behind a visor and white hair flowing out under the helmet like a halo - and a blade already dripping with blood coming down on them, severing skin, flesh and bone. 

When he was finished the elves had corralled all their captives, and were starting to drive them away. The woman whom the elf had kicked in the stomach was still wailing, lying on the ground and stretching her arms towards the children that were led away. Geralt walked over to her, leading his horse by the reins.   
“Stop howling, woman. Your child will get to live in a palace, wear good clothes and will be fed every day. The way she looks she’ll likely end up as a pleasure slave - and those don’t live too bad. Her life will be so much better than staying in this dungheap. And be glad that you’re still alive.” 

With that he swung himself up in his saddle, and turned his horse to ride away but somehow the woman managed to cling to his boot and the stirrup.   
“But you are a human - how can you let those ghosts take my baby…” she cried, her voice choked from sobbing. The Witcher was about to shove her down when his horse just turned it’s head, and tore the thing that clung to him away. Huge teeth sunk into the flesh of the woman’s arm and she was ripped from the Witcher’s boot, screaming in pain and panic. The horse shook it’s huge head and dropped the body into the dirt of the road. Sheer luck threw the woman to the side and not in the path of the giant, iron-clad hooves, were she would have been trampled. Geralt didn’t look back to see if she was still alive, but urged his horse into a gallop while patting it’s neck for a job well done. He was considering naming the animal, Roach sounded good in his mind.

They came back to Tir ná Lia to be greeted by Caranthir. The Witcher ground his teeth at seeing him. The reason for the mage to be the first to see them was made clear soon enough, as the elf started to select a few from the captives to be brought to his laboratory. Among them the girl that had been ripped from her mother while Geralt had watched. The Witcher knew pretty well that none of the selected would survive the night - he had seen them perish at his side, when he himself had hung on the chain. Caranthir usually called them his control group - to get a measure how much more Geralt could endure than an average human. A shiver ran down his spine - if Caranthir was already selecting so many, it usually meant that Geralt would be back at the laboratory himself sooner than he wanted. 

With a snarl he turned away - only to find himself face to face with Eredin. The king looked down at him with a sneer.   
“I know what you are thinking - but you don’t need to worry. Those will be subjected to experiments that have nothing to do with you. I told Caranthir to hold his special experiments for a while. At least for as long as you behave yourself. Like you did today - Imlerith just told me how you finished off this band of peasants. It must have been quite an impressive sight. I am sure I would have liked it.” 

Then his hand softly touched Geralt’s chin and lifted the Witcher’s head to face him before Eredin lowered his lips onto the other man’s. Geralt felt the elven king’s small, even teeth bite into his lip, and groaned as they broke the skin, drawing blood.   
Eredin pulled back and slowly licked a drop of bright red liquid from his pale lips. “You stink of human filth - go and bathe.”   
With that the king turned away, and strode over to Caranthir and Imlerith who had both intently watched their king and his pet Witcher.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Geralt has successfully been rid of all those feelings and useless things like remorse and basically his conscience. The only thing that remains is anger. 
> 
> I hope I managed to get the soulless Witcher right. The monster without emotions.


	6. Hunting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dearg Ruadhri set out for a special hunt.  
> And something begins...

Winter and spring had passed in just a blink on his own world and it was now well into summer. During his time in the world of the Aen Elle the Witcher had quickly realised that the time in his own world passed much quicker than it did in Tir ná Lia, where everything seemed to be in a permanent state of early summer.  
And although the warm wind carried the sweetness of fresh grass with it up to the terraces of the palace, Geralt was retching, doubled over at the edge of the pool. The headaches had grown stronger in the last few weeks. Ever since Eredin had ordered Caranthir to stop his experiments.  
Geralt only had seen the correlation that morning when the elven healer had asked him since when exactly he was plagued with that increased kind of pain. But he wasn’t ready yet to go back to the mage’s ‘treatments’.  
One of his slave girls came over with a potion of the special tonic the healer had prescribed. It made him slightly woozy and uncoordinated, but at least the headache subsided to a tolerable level. He pushed her away. “No, not today. I’m heading out on a raid.” Geralt groaned and slowly got to his feet. “I am not sure if I’m more likely to get killed because of the headache or the potion against it.” he grumbled, slowly putting on his armour. 

When he finally stood outside, together with the other riders, it was not Imlerith, but Eredin who rode towards them. The elven king was in full battle armour and rode one of the largest horses the Witcher had ever seen in his life. Both Imlerith and Caranthir rode closely behind him. Eredin motioned to the Witcher to join them.

“Pretty big turnout for a simple slave-raid.” Geralt said with a sneer when he reached them. Both generals scowled at him but Eredin only raised his eyebrows. “If this was just a slave-raid, Witcher, then you might be right. But today we are after something different.” his pale eyes shone with a fever that Geralt hadn’t seen in him yet.  
“Our prey is something special, something that can change between the worlds at will. In your world they are seen as something beautiful and mystified. But we know they are vicious and dangerous. A few of them have been sighted in the mountains and we will hunt them down.” 

At the king’s words Caranthir sneered. “Ever killed a unicorn, Vatt’ghern? Today you will get your chance at hunting one.”  
His voice contained a glee that Geralt would have never expected from the mage.  
“What’s so dangerous about a horse with a horn on it’s head? And why are you all behaving like priests who have finally found the right virgin for their ritual?”  
Geralt couldn’t fathom the excitement of the Aen Elle. He had obviously heard about unicorns and knew that they were real and somehow he had the feeling that he even had seen one in his former life, that strangely blank period of his existence, where his thoughts only rarely strayed to. 

But before he could think even one heartbeat longer about his past, another pain-attack had him forget about unicorns and virgins and his fingers tightened on the reins of his stallion. The animal sensed something being wrong with it’s rider and started prancing nervously. 

As the Witcher was about to simply drop from his saddle, Caranthir was the first to act. Raising his staff he shot a wave of magic towards Geralt, who suddenly convulsed as the magic hit him. The Witcher’s mouth opened in a silent scream and it took two warriors to get him down from the saddle as all the muscles in his body had locked up.  
Geralt couldn’t see or hear anything, he was back in Caranthir’s tower, hanging from the chain and being subjected to the elf’s experiments. Every nerve in his body was on fire, his blood boiling through his veins and his bones felt like they were slowly being ground into dust. 

As suddenly as the spell had hit him, it stopped, and he was left lying on the ground, still being held by several guards. At first all he could see was the sky, a beautiful cerulean blue with a few high, white clouds scattered over it. A tower from the palace poked into his field of vision, before it was blocked by the familiar form of Eredin. The king had removed his helmet and his cold eyes stared down at the Witcher. “Do you feel better?”  
Although the question was more than unusual after what Geralt had just been through, he had to admit that after the last tremors from the mage’s spell had passed, he did indeed feel better. The excruciating headache was nearly gone and he was able to sit up without vomiting all over himself. Only a slight pounding in his head was left and that he could simply ignore. 

Back in the saddle he heard Caranthir argue with Eredin “As I have said before, we should never have stopped the experiments in the first place. They always served a purpose. His mind is too damaged to work properly without the right amount of stimulation. Pain - he needs it. And no, ‘that’ kind of pain is not nearly enough to keep him in working condition.”  
“But your experiments were not helping our cause at all. They made him even more distrustful. And at least in my case I cannot have that. I need him at my side, physically and mentally.”  
Both elves stopped talking when Geralt guided his horse towards them but he could clearly see that both knew that he had heard them. However, he chose not to say anything about it. At least for the moment. 

After one last look at him, Eredin turned away from the Witcher and the Dearg Ruadhri formed into a column that left the palace and moved towards the eternally snow covered mountains. They rode fast, the hounds dashing ahead of them. The only noises heard were the breathing of the horses and the clanging and creaking of their gear. Every now and then one or two of the hounds would approach them from under the trees and it looked like Caranthir was getting some sort of message or report because when the beasts disappeared again in the depths of the forest, the mage would often utter a command and they would change their direction. 

Geralt rode a few horse lengths behind Eredin and his generals. None of the other warriors wanted to be too close to him, so he effectively rode alone. He certainly didn’t mind. Talking was the last thing on his mind, and although he shared Eredin’s bed nearly every night, small talk had never been part of that. And he very much preferred to see Caranthir from behind - at least so he always knew where the mage was. 

The Witcher rode in silence and could feel the ever present anger in his guts boil. By now he was so used to it, he felt strangely bereft in those few moments, when it wasn’t there. Somehow, he mused, he missed it mostly because it was the only kind of feeling that was left to him. He didn’t feel sorrow or happiness. There was no compassion for anyone or anything - at the most he managed a kind of contempt towards others. Only his anger was a constant presence - it wasn’t aimed at anything in particular. It was just there - ready to be released. 

Killing someone or something would quench it for a short time, more effective was taking his pleasure from a quivering body under him and using his power over them. And whenever he was with the king, the anger stepped back completely to make space for that thing in him, which relished in the submission and pain Eredin caused. When he felt his whole being at the mercy of the powerful elf, writhing in agony and lust, his arousal wound tighter than he had ever believed possible - only to be released in an explosion as powerful as the sun, feeling himself being thrown into the center of a thunderstorm and his body nearly torn apart by the powerful contractions - then his anger was gone. In those few precious minutes when his limbs still shook with the aftershocks, he found the only kind of peace that was available to him. Even the constant pain in his head abated for those few moments.  
But he would still miss the anger - and always was kind of relieved when it came flooding back. If just to prove that he was not completely without feelings.

Riding through a narrow valley they started to head up towards a pass. Geralt was startled from his musings by the sudden drop in temperature. Pulling his coat closer around him, he scanned the trees surrounding them. They were nearing the tree line. What trees remained here, were battered by wind and ice. The snow became gradually deeper and the horses had to work harder to push on. When the last trees opened up onto a vast white plain, Geralt could see the trails of the hounds clearly in the snow. They were headed straight towards a small peak that struck out from the snow. Behind it, the black and cold nearly vertical slopes of the tallest mountains rose up.

Suddenly the Witcher detected movement from the corner of his eye - he had drawn his sword before any of the others even realized that something was coming out behind the craggy peak. They were too far away to really see any details, but Geralt could easily detect about half a dozen larger shapes, which moved quickly onto the open plain, and the smaller dots that followed them. Howling drifted through the cold air towards the riders, and it was clear that the hounds had finally found their prey.

With Eredin and his generals at the lead, the Wild Hunt started the chase. They fanned out and tried to intercept the path of their prey. On the windswept plain the snow wasn’t as deep as between the trees so their horses were able to gallop freely. For a while it looked as if the plan to cut off the unicorns would work.  
Because it was really unicorns they were chasing. Although he never doubted Eredin’s words, Geralt was still amazed to see the animals for real. If they were animals at all - somehow he doubted that a simple animal could have the Aen Elle in such a rage to kill them. 

The Witcher was soon able to distinguish different unicorns. A rusty red stallion was at the front, followed by a beautiful pure white unicorn. They were magnificent as they flew through the snow, seemingly mocking the hounds that followed them.

Caranthir was bellowing something, rising his staff high above his head and a shockwave of magic ran along the snow towards the unicorns. Before it managed to hit them, they swerved and narrowly evaded the spell. But they were separated - the rusty red and the white unicorn were suddenly running diagonally to their original path and the rest of the herd. 

The larger part of the elves and the hounds followed the herd, Imlerith leading them. But Eredin and his Navigator followed the two separated unicorns. Geralt decided to join them and urged his horse into a breakneck gallop to catch up with their prey. His horse was faster than Caranthir’s and he had soon overtaken the mage, who continued to send spells from his staff towards the unicorns. 

Eredin was urging his horse along, trying to cut off their prey. When he reached them, it seemed as if the snow was exploding. The unicorns were no easy prey but fighting back, attacking using their horns and hooves, and undeniably, magic. Eredin was fighting them with his sword. The longbow he had tied to his saddle completely useless this close up. 

Geralt regretted that he had refused to take a bow or at least a crossbow with him, when he closed in on them. He crashed into the red unicorn without slowing down his horse. Both animals screamed and went down in a tangle of limbs. At the last possible moment the Witcher pulled his feet from his stirrups and jumped from his horse. With an elegant roll he landed on the hard packed snow and turned towards Eredin and the white unicorn. 

Behind him Caranthir reached the scene and a spell forced it’s way through the snow and hit the red unicorn straight in the chest. The stallion had just managed to get back on his feet when he was hit and Geralt heard the crunch of bones before the shrill cry of the unicorn, as it was thrown back on the ground by the force of the magic that had hit it. It’s legs were moving erratically, before stiffening and it stopped moving altogether. 

The white animal registered the death of it’s companion and screamed before ramming it’s horn into the chest of Eredin’s horse. The huge animal ripped itself free but tumbled to the ground after a few steps, taking the king with it. The elf was half buried under his own dead horse, trying to free himself when the white unicorn stepped towards him, blood still dripping from it’s horn.  
Geralt had already started running when the unicorn attacked the horse, and reached Eredin before the white animal was close enough to kill him. The Witcher flew over the downed horse and it’s stricken rider and with his sword raised above his head immediately attacked the unicorn.  
For some reason the animal seemed distracted and stepped back, evading his sword but not defending itself or even attacking Geralt, who had stopped in front of it, sword in both hands and legs apart, waiting for the unicorn to come for him.

Feeling the pain at the back of his head flare back up, Geralt grunted and tried to use it to fuel his anger and finish off the creature before him. But something had him wait… he saw a shadow behind the unicorn. It reached out a hand and seemed to call to him. Coming closer it put a small hand on the unicorn’s flank. The animal turned it’s head towards the apparition, seemingly questioning it as to what to do. 

The Witcher didn’t hesitate. His sword hissed through the air the moment the unicorn’s head was turned away, and it presented it’s vulnerable neck to him. In a single blow from below the blade cleanly cut through the flesh and muscle, nearly decapitating the unicorn. It dropped to the ground without a sound. When Geralt looked up, the shadow was gone. It had only been a vision.  
Looking at the dead unicorn he watched the red, hot blood steam in the cold, melting the white snow where it touched it. 

“That was quite the kill. I am in your debt.”  
Eredin, who had managed to free himself, came over to Geralt and stopped short, when the Witcher raised his sword towards him. The blade was covered in slowly freezing blood.  
Geralt blinked several times, his vision had started to blur slightly. A word slowly formed in his mind - Ihuarraquax. He had no idea what it meant or where it came from. Shaking his head to clear his mind he grabbed a fistful of snow and cleaned his sword before putting it back into it’s scabbard.  
“You’re welcome. Next time I suggest taking more bowmen on a hunt like that. Might be more effective than using a sword.” Geralt’s voice was gruff with pain and he wanted nothing more than to leave this god-forsaken, ice-ridden plain.  
“It was personal.” Eredin stated coldly. “I would have loved to kill that beast myself, but as it is, you have had the pleasure. And saved my life by it.” He turned back to the dead unicorn. His men were already busy skinning it and wrapping the head up, to take back with them.

Caranthir was commanding a group to the red unicorn, to take care of it. Slowly the remaining riders of the Hunt and the hounds came back. They dragged another unicorn behind them. The rest of the herd had escaped. 

The last rays of sunlight disappeared behind the dark clouds that had built up in the west as they came back to the palace. During the ride back, Geralt felt as if someone was watching him. He never saw anyone but he couldn’t shake the feeling off. When the gates to the palace closed behind them he felt as if an invisible weight had been lifted from his shoulders. 

The storm was closing in on the city and the first flashes of lightning had the Witcher watch as the elven warriors were carrying their bloody trophies away.  
Turning his head he saw Eredin standing in the middle of the court. Still wearing his armour, only his eyes were visible behind the visor. Geralt went over to him, drawn by some invisible chain, unable to stop himself as he sank to his knees before the towering Aen Elle. The king slowly lifted his hand and when the ironclad fingers softly touched his cheek he closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. 

Looking up at the elven king when the next lightning bolt struck, he saw an expression of unrestrained triumph in those pale eyes. Geralt didn’t move when the gloved hand reached for his throat and tightened. He let himself be pulled back to his feet by that hand.  
“You will be rewarded for your deed today. The trophy of the beast you have slain will be yours.” Eredin announced before he lowered his head so that only the Witcher could hear him “I will personally see that you receive the rewards you deserve.”  
The hand loosened and Eredin turned away walking into his palace. The Witcher remained standing in the now nearly empty courtyard as the storm finally reached the city and the wind began battering the walls and and icy rain began to lash down on him. After a few minutes he shook himself and went inside.

A slave already waited for him and directed him to the kings rooms instead of letting him go to his own quarters first. Geralt simply shoved the man out of his way and continued to his own rooms. He wanted to take a hot bath first and needed to take care of his sword before he would enter the Aen Elle’s rooms. He was quite sure he wouldn’t be able to leave them for the next few days.

He was just oiling his blade and inspecting it for any damage, when he heard a squeal. His slave girls had been busy readying the bath for him but now stood simply there, eyes wide open and trembling. They were staring at the door.

Geralt turned and his anger flared up immediately. Imlerith was standing in his room, a whimpering mess of a man at his knees with the generals hand clutched tightly into his hair. The reason for the shocked reaction of the women could be seen behind the pair. A long, red trail of blood was smeared along the way the elven general had come. It originated from the man, who tried desperately to cover the gaping wound in his belly with his hands. His face was deathly white and his eyes bulged from shock and pain. 

With a snarl the Witcher moved towards Imlerith “By the ploughing gods, what is this about? How dare you drag this filth in here?” 

“You were ordered by the king to come to him. Did this slave convey the the message?” Imlerith was dragging the man up a bit further by his hair, eliciting a horribly pained groan.  
“Because he seems to have failed to do so. Nobody - no, not even you, Vatt’ghern - would dare to refuse Eredin. So the conclusion is that the slave failed in his duty.”  
With a disgusted sneer Imlerith shoved the man towards the witcher and let him drop at his feet. Geralt stepped instinctively back to avoid blood spattering on his boots.  
The slave desperately tried to say something but blood pouring from his mouth only had him choke and convulse on the floor. 

“Are you going to let him bleed out here? What do you want to prove, elf?” Geralt walked around the twitching, whining thing that had been the slave to call him to Eredin. He stood before the general and crossed his arms, a challenging look in his eyes.  
“You would love to stick your sword into me, just like you did with him. That is what you want, isn’t it?” He lips turned into a nasty smile.  
“I am utterly sorry to tell you that your dear Navigator is already first in line to torture me to death. If you ask nicely though, he might allow you to cut my throat at the end, to put me out of my misery.”

His eyes turned back to the man on the floor. The pool of blood had been growing and the movements of the slave had become more feeble with every heartbeat. Only a quiet moan was coming from him now. The Witcher looked back to the elf. “I’d appreciate if you leave. And don’t forget to clean up after you.” With that he turned towards the bath, where the still shocked slave girls hadn’t moved at all.  
But when Geralt neared them, they fell back into a frenzy to finish their preparations. None looked towards the bloody mess in the middle of the room anymore. And none protested when the Witcher grabbed one of them and, bending her over a side table, took her, while slaves, sent in by Imlerith, dragged the dead man from the room and started to clean up the floor. 

Finally leaving his room, and walking toward the kings quarters he wondered why he hadn’t been dragged from his bath by a dozen guards and flogged in front of the king. Imlerith had been right about one thing - one didn’t refuse the king of the Wild Hunt. Eredin Bréacc Glas was not dealing well with denial. The fact that only the slave had ended up dead, and not the Witcher was just a slight glitch that might be remedied rather sooner than later. At that thought the thing in him seemed to wake up. Could he go so far as to goad Eredin into killing him? Somehow it sounded tempting. 

His thoughts came to a stop when he entered the king’s rooms. Eredin stood at the window, wearing only a sleeveless tunic and deerskin breeches. He was barefooted and obviously reading a letter. The elderly elven woman, whom Geralt had seen on several occasions, and who he believed to be his assistant, stood nearby. 

The king completely ignored the Witcher, who had stopped near the doors and turned to his assistant, giving her the paper and started talking to her in a low voice. She finally nodded and left the room without even a glance at the white haired man whom she had to step around to get to the door. Somehow this riled the anger in Geralt and he let out a huff.

“You don’t like being ignored, do you? Although you always claim to stand at the side, to be neutral, that you do not want to interfere. But when you are put to the side, and nobody looks at you any more, you are offended.”  
A small smile played on Eredin’s lips and he walked towards the Witcher. 

“Why didn’t you come to me when I asked? Did you want to taunt me? Do you crave pain so much that you want me to give you back to Caranthir?” His voice was full of real curiosity. The king couldn’t fathom why Geralt had refused him. 

“Maybe I preferred taking a hot bath and ploughing my slaves to spending my time with you?” The challenge was childish but Geralt couldn’t be arsed to force his brain to come up with something more refined. 

“A slave has died because of your whim, you do know that.” Eredin’s look became predatory.

“Unfortunately your general made me witness it. Including the bleeding out on the floor. But since when do you people care about a single slave - and an old one at that.” The last thing Geralt wanted to talk about was the man who had died in his room.  
And Eredin seemed to be content with that answer. He shot one more look at the Witcher before turning towards the doors to his bedroom.

“I promised to reward you for saving my life. You will come to me, willingly” the cold voice took on a slight edge and Geralt could feel the heat behind it. Before his brain really had caught up with it, his legs were already moving and he was following the elf into the bedroom.

Once inside he started to remove his clothes - he had only worn his trousers, a shirt and his boots anyway. Naked he stepped over the discarded garments and stalked slowly towards Eredin, who had remained standing in front of the bed. 

“You want to give me my reward? I think I will take it myself.” His voice had become low and dangerous and although he was the one who was unarmed and naked, he could see that the elf’s eyes widened and Eredin’s breath hitched before the king got himself back under control.  
With a predatory grin Geralt practically forced the elf backwards until Eredin’s legs stopped at the edge of the bed. It was clear that he still wasn’t sure how to deal with his pet Witcher who had suddenly decided to show his teeth.

With a slow and very deliberate gesture Geralt opened the fastenings of the elf’s tunic before simply ripping it the rest of the way and discarding it on the floor. His hands then moved up to Eredin’s nape and his fingers wove into his hair. The Witcher pulled the king down and pressed a hard kiss on his lips, immediately shoving his tongue into the other’s mouth. Eredin opened his lips instinctively and moaned quietly at the intrusion. He still had his hands at his sides and seemed to deliberate how far he would let the Witcher go, before he stopped him.

Geralt decided to make the most of the current situation. Although the beast within him howled and demanded to be released he ignored it and let his other side, the dominant one which was fueled by his anger, take charge.  
Pressing his knee between the elven king’s thighs he ground his hips into Eredin’s - relishing in the groan that move caused.  
With a quick twist he pushed the elf onto the bed and was over him in an instant. Geralt immediately started to mouth over the vast expanse of Eredin’s lean chest. Compared to his own torso, the elf’s hardly showed any scars at all. He knew that this was mostly due to elven healing magic and not due to lack of injuries or fights. His fingers slid along the edge of the fine leather breeches and undid the bindings without moving any further.  
When he looked up to the elf with half-lidded eyes he could see that Eredin had his head thrown back and his hands buried in the furs that covered the bed. 

Geralt slowly made his way up, nibbling and licking at the pale skin. His hands followed the trail of his tongue, light touches ghosting along, registering every ripple and tremor in the Aen Elle.  
Reaching the white column of Eredin’s neck, Geralt nuzzled up to his jaw before he let one of his hands rest lightly on the throat, not pressing hard but just a faint promise of what would be possible. Again he was grinding his hips against the elf’s, not caring that his already weeping cock smeared pre-cum all over the fine deerskin breeches. He could feel Eredin was just as hard as he was. 

In a move that completely took the elf by surprise, Geralt got to his knees and turned the elf onto his belly. When Eredin tried to get back up, Geralt put a hand between his shoulder blades and pushed him back down, while his other hand shoved the already loosened breeches down the elf’s legs. But before Geralt could do anything more he found himself in a tangle of furs on the floor beside the bed with a furious Aen Elle sitting on top of him. 

“You might think that you showing your claws is enough to subdue me, Gwynbleidd, but do not be mistaken, you will be the one to submit to me. Because that is what you want. You have played enough.” And with that Eredin grabbed Geralt’s arm and bent it onto his back just short of breaking bone, shoving the Witcher’s body back onto the bed.  
And although this caused a surge of pleasure rippling up his spine and he couldn’t hold back the moan that escaped him, Geralt didn’t want to give in.

Snarling he tried to buck off the elf, but even with his nearly super-human strength he was no match to Eredin’s superior power. The king kept the Witcher on his knees, his head pressed into the furs. Without any preparation Eredin suddenly entered him, pressing into his tight heat, driving all the air from his lungs. Pain soared along his spine and he felt like being sliced in half. The hand holding his arm disappeared and he could feel the elf’s fingers gripping into his hair, jerking his head back. The scream that had torn out of his throat was cut off when his neck was suddenly arched near breaking point.

Starting a relentless rhythm, the king pulled him up, his hand still in his hair, until Geralt’s back was pressed against the elf’s chest. Eredin’s tongue laved up his neck and along his jaw only stopping to let his teeth leave bruises on the Witcher’s pale skin. Softly breathing over Geralt’s ear, Eredin continued to lick and suck on the soft skin underneath it. This time a tremor shook the Witcher’s whole body as for once not pain but arousal coursed through him.

The fingers of Eredin’s other hand dug painfully into his waist, holding him in place while the elf slowed his thrusts and changed his angle to get deeper and hit the spot of nerves inside the Witcher’s ass.  
Geralt’s hands had kept hanging at his side until now, when he lifted them and pulled Eredin’s head around and despite the hand in his hair turned himself as much as possible before he greedily started to attack the king’s mouth. He kissed him hard, letting his tongue drive beyond Eredin’s teeth. The elf let go of his hair and his hand settled in Geralt’s nape, holding him there.  
The other hand started to loosen it’s grip on his hip and finally wandered up his torso, caressing every scar it met and making Geralt feel as if not one but a dozen hands were touching his skin at the same time. Shivering he moaned into Eredin’s mouth. When he could feel the elf’s cool fingers drift over his sensitive nipples he gasped and jerked and lost his grip on Eredin only to be immediately shoved back down flat onto the bed. The Aen Elle continued to pound into him and each shove resulted in exquisite friction on his pre-cum leaking hard cock from the furs. 

Geralt felt the fire of his release come nearer like a river of lava - burning hot and unstoppable. But before he managed to come, he was suddenly grabbed by the neck and Eredin pulled them both back up on their knees - not even once did the king falter in thrusting into the Witcher. Geralt started to whine when the friction was suddenly gone and he was left hanging so close to his release. Eredin’s hand wandered from the back of his neck to his throat, not strangling him but just to hold him up while the second hand went back to grab him by the hips. The elven king’s movements became faster, more erratically.  
“Touch yourself and come for me.”  
Geralt’s whole body stiffened when Eredin whispered those words into his ear, and followed it by licking and biting on his neck. The Witcher’s hands immediately flew to his cock and using both he grabbed himself hard in one hand while the other pulled on the head, twisting slightly and letting his sword callused fingers glide over the sensitive crown. It only took a few of those moves and with Eredin’s hot breath still in his ear he came hard, spilling himself over his fingers onto the bed.

Geralt felt how his ass clenched down on the elf’s cock and heard Eredin hiss before the Aen Elle buried himself deep inside with a last thrust of his hips and spilled himself in the Witcher. For a few heartbeats both men seemed like statues on the bed - their sweat-covered bodies unmoving, all muscles clenched up - before the tension was released and both tumbled down onto the soft bedding. Heavy breathing and quiet moans were the only sounds in the room. 

Feeling soft lips cover his shoulders with light kisses, Geralt moved for the first time in what seemed to him to have been ages. He felt Eredin move on top of him and when the elf pulled his cock out, a sharp pain followed by a strangely empty feeling had him groan. His brain was still hazy from his orgasm and he had trouble forming coherent sentences in his mind, let alone speak them aloud. 

Trying to look up he glanced at the window - and suddenly started to rise from the bed and dash towards the shadow that he had seen there. Unfortunately that move was cut short by his weak legs and the excruciating pain that radiated from between them. He fell hard on his knees just one step from the bed and only just managed to catch himself on his arms, avoiding hitting the floor nose first. When he looked up again, the shadow was gone.

Eredin was at his side immediately. He held something to Geralt’s lips. From the smell the Witcher could tell that it was a healing potion. At first he wanted to shove it away but one look down his body to his blood covered thighs, and the stinging, throbbing pain from his ass convinced him to drink it down immediately.  
“Why did you want to get away from me this quickly? You seemed to have enjoyed our time together.”  
Slight amusement was softening the elf’s usually cold voice.  
“Maybe I needed to piss really, really badly?” Geralt’s voice was rougher than he had thought it would be.  
The elf snorted and helped him up. Geralt then shook off his hands and made his way to the bath chamber on trembling legs. Already the pain was lessening but he was very much looking forward to clean himself up. 

For some reason Geralt didn’t want to talk about what he had seen. That the shadow at the window had been the same shadow who he had seen that afternoon, standing behind the unicorn. The same young, ashen-haired woman who made the pain in his head throb harder with every single beat of his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP Little Horse... 
> 
> For those who haven't read the books and want to know what this is about: [Ihuarraquax](https://witcher.gamepedia.com/Ihuarraquax)


	7. Cat and mouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the end. Geralt gets to know Eredin's true intentions. Which aren't good, obviously.

Going back to bed where Eredin was still lying on his side, watching him intently had him glancing back at the window. But it was empty. Crawling in under the blankets he lay back and tried to relax. Eredin’s hand started softly caressing his side, moving in long slow strokes from his hip to his shoulder. Geralt sighed and felt his muscles loosen up. 

“You are fascinating, Vatt’ghern.” Eredin murmured “I know that you could probably kill a dozen of my men without really exerting yourself, but when you are with me, you submit so beautifully.”  
His voice got lower “When I first saw you I wanted you to kneel in front of me, defiance still in your eyes but already willing to take me.”  
The strokes became bolder, fingers gliding over nipples and between his thighs, but only ever nearly touching his cock. Geralt could feel how he became hard again. 

He wasn’t sure if he could take Eredin a second time - even though he had had the healing potion. But the elf seemed to have sensed the Witcher tensing up.  
His voice was low and silken “You don’t need to worry - I do not intend to force your submission again tonight. I just want to enjoy seeing you come undone under my hands.”

With that the elf lowered his mouth and kissed him - slowly and languidly. It was a stark contrast to the force Eredin had unleashed before, and Geralt just relaxed into him. The Aen Elle started trailing little kisses along the Witcher’s neck and chest, all the while continuing the soft touches of his hands. Geralt let himself drift away - the elf was incredibly skilled with his fingers and his tongue. 

When Eredin finally gripped Geralt’s cock in his hand, the Witcher’s back arched from the bed. He whined, gripping the sheets in his fingers. The Aen Elle smirked and continued to softly suck on his skin. Long hard strokes alternating with light moves of his palm over the already weeping head of Geralt’s cock drove the Witcher unerringly towards the precipice of orgasm. 

He finally came when Eredin moved up to his neck and nuzzled softly under his ear, while he stroked his cock with long, slow pulls. His hips bucked into the elf’s hand and he spilled himself all over his belly, his breath rushing out of his lungs with a low moan. It was somehow more intense than the brutal release from before - but different, oh so very different. He lay on the bed, completely limp and unable to even lift a finger.  
When Eredin dragged his fingers over his chest he only managed a quiet groan.

Somehow the Aen Elle managed to look both smug and vicious at the same time. And although he was completely spent, Geralt felt the heat pool in his groin again.  
“Another thing I like about you - your stamina is quite extra-ordinary.” Eredin actually chuckled as he said that. It was so unlike his usual behavior that it managed to raise Geralt from his post-orgasm bliss. He lifted himself up to his elbows, looking at the king. 

“Not that I’m complaining, but you are in a rather cheery mood right now. What happened while I was out of the room?”

“Nothing of interest. Trust me. I only got news that someone who I haven’t seen in a very long time has decided to pay Tir ná Lia a visit. But this doesn’t concern you. At least not for the time being.” Eredin lay back and closed his eyes.  
“You will stay here tonight. Rest and tomorrow we will talk.”

____________

The next morning had Geralt wake up before the sun had even started to color the horizon in the east. He got out of bed and dressed quietly. The guards at the doors let him through without a glance. His room was dark and quiet - the slaves had not counted on him coming back anytime soon and cleaned up. There was no food or drink to be found. In a first instinct he wanted to head to their room and order them to draw him a bath and maybe have a bit of fun with one or two of them. But somehow that didn’t seem right to him. He had no idea why but something just told him that the girls deserved a peaceful night for once.

He got his sword and armor and went back outside towards the training grounds. In the first faint light of the morning and the glow of several fires around the small arena he started to go through his training routines. His muscles warmed up and loosened and he could feel how his sword became part of himself again. Then it struck him. He didn’t feel any pain - not from last night or from the fight during the day. And his head was clear and not a pinch of the headache that had been his constant companion for the last months remained.

Geralt stopped in the middle of a strike. His sword slowly dropped down until the tip hit the hard packed sand. Listening into himself he heard and felt only his own deep breaths and the steady beat of his heart. A small grin spread on his face and he started to go through his movements again. This time even faster.

When the first of the Aen Elle soldiers arrived for their morning training, Geralt left the training grounds. He went to his rooms and registered that a bath had already been filled for him. His slaves waiting beside it. Leaving his armor and clothes on the floor he climbed in and closed his eyes. The women started to sponge his arms and legs and he sighed. When the water became tepid he climbed out and held out a hand to the red-haired slave. His intention was made more than clear by his already hard cock. 

The girl blinked a few times and hesitantly took his hand. Geralt pulled her in and kissed her. Although he held her tight to his body so that he could feel every soft curve he didn’t put the same force into his kiss. His lips were light on hers and he let his tongue explore her mouth leisurely. When she finally leaned into him and seemed to melt against him, he took her over to the bed. Slowly he prepared her body until she was moaning with every little touch of his hands and tongue. Finally he entered her and just held still for a few heartbeats, reveling in her hot and tight wetness. 

His moves were slow at first but when she seemed to become impatient he increased the speed of his thrusts. She hung onto him and met him for every push. Sweat started to bead between her breasts and Geralt licked it away. His fingers found their way between their bodies and he rubbed her sensitive nub. Bucking up under him he could feel her clench around his cock as she came. He let himself go and came after a few more thrusts, buried deep inside her. A deep groan escaped his lungs and he shuddered with his release. 

Slowly he pulled out of her and lay down at her side, his head on her shoulder while his free hand stroked softly over her skin. When she shivered under his touches he drew up a blanked and covered them both. After a while he felt her lift her arm and hesitantly put her fingers into his hair. When she started to softly massage his scalp he literally started to purr. The hand grew bolder and moved down to his nape and shoulders, exploring his skin. 

He was disturbed by the arrival of a guard who let him know that the king requested his presence. Geralt dressed, including his armor and swords and followed the elf. Upon entering the king’s quarters he was happy to see that Eredin was having breakfast and intended to have him join him. Leaving his swords at a side table, the Witcher lowered himself onto the cushions opposite the elven king.  
Geralt ate his fill and relaxed with a cup of hot tea. He fully intended to let nothing spoil the relaxation and contentment he felt. 

“You look very much like a cat that got to the cream.” Eredin remarked while he filled his own cup again.  
“I take it the morning was a pleasant one?” 

“I’ve had worse.” Geralt said with a slight smile on his lips. He wasn’t going to elaborate. Eredin only raised an eyebrow but didn’t dwell on the topic.

“Do you remember anything about your former life, before you came here?” Ice seemed to cover Eredin’s voice.  
The question had Geralt stop his cup in mid-air. He blinked a few times at the elf, taken aback by the sudden change in tone. With a frown he answered “You know that I don’t.”

Eredin didn’t seem to be convinced, though. His pale eyes matched his voice in coldness, when he continued.  
“Have you ever heard of the Elder Blood? It is something that has been known about even on your world.”

“But even if I’d ever heard about it, I do not remember it. There is nothing when I try to go back. All I ever see is darkness and then the pain comes. And you will not force me to go there. Not now, not ever.” Geralt bit out the last sentence.  
All his good intentions of not letting his mood be turned sour had been for naught. The Aen Elle had managed to stoke his anger and he could feel it rise like bile in his throat. The Witcher took a deep gulp of his tea in the hope to disperse the sour taste in his mouth. He should have added more honey.

The king of the Wild Hunt smiled. But his eyes stayed cold and analytical.  
“You do not have to worry, I will not force you to remember. Actually I am quite sure that there is nothing worth remembering of your past, anyway. Some things better stay hidden. For the sake of everyone involved.” He took a small fruit and took a bite. Some of the juice ran down his palm. He didn’t seem to register it. 

“But as you do not remember, I will tell you about the Elder Blood. It is a rather important topic as it concerns the continued existence of my people. We once had the power to open portals into many worlds. But over time we lost it, namely we lost the people who had that power. It was the Elder Blood, the blood of our ancestors, that got diluted too much and the genes that carried the power became too rare. But after a very long time someone carrying it has appeared. That person can be the sole savior of the Aen Elle. Because this world is dying, like so many others. And the Elder Blood can help me to bring my people into safety, to another world.”  
He paused at that, looking at the Witcher, who now cocked his head.

“And that Elder Blood is the one that has come to visit now? What are you going to do? It sounds to me that you need that person to open some portals for you. That shouldn’t be too much of a problem. You made it sound as if that person was someone who wasn’t an enemy to the Aen Elle. And even if they were, you do have your ways to get what you want.” Geralt couldn’t help the disdain in his voice at the last sentence.

“If it only were that simple. The person might have the gene but it is not activated yet. Only their offspring will be able to wield the true power of the Elder Blood. And only when they procreate with the right person.”

Geralt nearly snorted into his tea “Are you going to tell me that you will start a breeding program to find that right person. And please do not tell me that I am somehow involved. You know that Witchers are sterile, don’t you?” 

“Oh, it is not about finding the right person. And do not worry, you wouldn’t be the one to sire a child on her. Even if you could.”

“So who will be… oh, I get it now. You plan to be the savior of your people by fathering the child that will have the power you need. How very noble of you.” Geralt took a piece of cheese and bit off a piece.  
“You need someone to court her in your name? Don’t know if she won’t be falling for me, instead. You know, my Witcher charms and all that.”

Geralt had decided to not let himself be dragged into the elven king’s courtship rituals. Or any rituals at all, whatever they might entail. He couldn’t care less about the continued existence of the Aen Elle. If Eredin wanted to marry some woman for her genes, then so be it. That wasn’t very different for the usual reasons of marriage in his world, at least among the nobility. They usually bred themselves like they bred their race horses and price hogs.

Taking another bite of the cheese he watched Eredin. The king was still eating the fruit and remained silent. 

“I think you could meet her. She is rather interesting, actually.” Eredin finished eating and slowly licked his fingers clean. Geralt’s pupils widened and he exhaled audibly.  
The king smirked “I am sorry but you will have to wait.” 

The elf stood up and beckoned Geralt to follow him. The Witcher slung his sword belts over his back while Eredin himself put a belt with a rather beautiful sword around his waist.  
“Unfortunately the young woman in question is still hesitating in her decision to join me.” A slight smile curled around the elf's lips but he didn't elaborate any further.

They walked towards the training ground. A sudden prickling feeling at his nape had Geralt slow his steps. Something wasn’t as it should have been. When the prickling was joined by the feeling of dread in his guts, his hands started to clench and his senses went into fight mode. 

As soon as they were out in the open, Geralt knew what had been wrong. The whole area was surrounded by elven archers and they all had their arrows aimed straight at him.  
Eredin had stepped away and drawn his own sword. 

“Don’t you think that a bit of training would be the right thing to do? Especially after such a rather exquisite breakfast.” The elf started to circle around Geralt, who had instinctively drawn his steel sword at the sight of the soldiers. 

“Whatever you think you’re doing, this is not what courting demands. At least not where I come from.” Geralt was still too surprised to think of anything else that could have been the reason for the rather abrupt change of mood. 

“Oh - but you know, this is exactly what I need for my courtship. It will definitely help me to persuade our guest to show herself and ultimately give herself to me. Because if she doesn’t, you will die here. Bleeding out in the sand. Just like her unicorn did.”  
The sneer on Eredin’s face grew savage. Nothing was left of the jovial and even friendly man from this morning. Then he attacked.

Despite his size he was incredibly fast. And although Geralt had trained with the elves more than once, Eredin was a completely different opponent. He was taller, faster and stronger than any other Aen Elle. In addition he had the use of magic and already Geralt felt the icy cold creep into him, searching for a weakness. 

He grit his teeth and let his Witcher training take over. Somehow his body seemed to remember that he had already fought the king of the Aen Elle. Geralt was able to block some of the more ferocious attacks before the elf drew back and continued his circling. Despite the cold and the ice forming on the ground around them, sweat had started to build between his shoulder blades and he could feel them sliding down his back. 

Despite his brain trying to find a reason for the actions of the king, his body had already decided that fighting was the only way forward. With effort Geralt managed to tear his thoughts away from the ‘why’ and concentrate on the ‘how’. How he was going to defeat Eredin in his own palace, surrounded by archers who without a doubt would kill him the second he brought their king down.  
So he would make it count. 

Pirouetting into a complicated pattern he managed to distract Eredin enough that the king opened himself up. Geralt’s sword cut into the opening and the blade sliced along the elf’s armor on his hip. Eredin took a few steps back and stared at his hand that came away from his body covered in blood. The Witcher’s sword had cut through metal and leather and bit into the soft flesh underneath. With a snarl Eredin grabbed his own sword with both hands, and through a barrage of blows managed to force Geralt back step by step.

Every single parry made the Witcher’s body ache to the core. It felt like he tried to block the huge water-powered hammer of a dwarven forge.  
Geralt wondered how his sword was still holding up to the brute force when at one last blow the blade finally gave in. With a strange high wine the metal suddenly broke apart close to the hilt. The shard flew towards his face and he evaded it only because of his reflexes. Geralt felt the razor-sharp edge singe along his cheek as it flew past before hot blood warmed his frozen face.

He grunted and went down to one knee, the broken sword still in his right hand. Eredin stood over him, triumph blazing from his eyes. However, he did nothing to attack.  
Geralt realized that the elf was just playing with him, like a cat played with a mouse. As long as he moved, Eredin would continue to torment him. And Geralt wouldn’t stop moving - he couldn’t simply betray all his training just like he couldn't stop breathing. He was made to fight and he would not give up easily. 

Slowly he raised himself, looking at the remains of the sword in his hands. 

“Looks like the one for monsters will be the right one for you, after all.” he growled while drawing his silver sword. He knew that the blade was too fragile to block the elf’s brutal blows. Geralt needed to find another way to fight Eredin. 

The elven king smiled and his eyes lit up “The famous silver sword, I guess I should feel honored.” And he attacked.

This time he didn’t use his superior strength to drive Geralt back but he changed his technique to something more refined, that actually paired well with the Witcher’s style. For a while it looked like both of them were not on a frozen training ground but in a ball room, whirling around in a complicated dance, whose movements were only known to them.  
Every now and then Geralt tried to force Eredin into attacking by leaving himself open or seemingly making a mistake. But the elf never fell for it. He continued to chase the Witcher around the training ground. Geralt could finally feel that his stamina and strength were starting to reach a critical level. Eredin himself wasn’t completely unaffected. Sweat ran down his temples and his breaths came fast and hard. His movements hadn’t slowed down yet, but had just become a bit more hacked off, not as fluid as they were at the beginning. If Geralt would have had his full strength, he would have been able to defeat the elf. But his muscles had started to tremble, and it took all his remaining strength to at least keep up with the Aen Elle. 

Suddenly Eredin jumped back, out of the reach of Geralt’s sword. The Witcher remained where he was, his blade in a defensive position, knees slightly bent. He was breathing hard and blinked to get the sweat out of his eyes. Slowly some drops of blood from the slash on his cheek made their way to his jaw and dropped down onto the hard packed sand. It was eerily quiet. 

Eredin stood there, watching him with something like scientific interest.  
“I have to admit, you are rather hard to kill, Vatt’ghern. But I think I’ve played enough.”  
His expression didn’t change when he raised his hand.

It was sheer luck that Geralt saw the archer release his arrow. His sword came up just in time to block it. He also managed to block the second one but the third hit home. He felt like he had been punched in the side, and looking down saw the shaft quiver just below his ribs.  
All strength left him and he dropped his sword before landing hard on his knees. He then just sat there, waiting for the rest of the arrows to land and punch through him. Finally he was about to meet his end. He hadn’t expected that this morning.

But Eredin stopped his men and no more arrows came. Pain started to creep from where the arrow head was lodged in his body, and he lifted his head to stare at the king of the Wild Hunt.

“You ploughing bastard. Stop playing and decide what you want.” He managed to finish the sentence without a groan.  
“Kill me - plough me. Just stop teasing me.”

“Both options are rather tempting, but for now I would rather have you were you are.” Eredin drawled. His voice was back to it’s usual icy cold tone and as he looked up his face showed no emotion at all.

He looked around, as if searching for something.

“I know you are here. You have been watching all along. Seeing him like this must pain you. Come out and I will make sure that he is treated, and will not bleed to death in the sand.”  
With the last sentence Eredin stepped forward and ripped the arrow out of Geralt’s side.  
The Witcher screamed as the barbed tip tore through his flesh and he fell onto his side. His hands flew to the wound, trying to stop the blood flowing.  
He curled in on himself and desperately tried to concentrate and not lose his consciousness. 

“I guess you have about 10 minutes before even for him the blood loss will be too much. So I suggest you come forward as soon as possible.”

Geralt moaned into the sand, feeling how it stuck to his lips and the blood on his face. He tried to sit up but there was nothing left in him to raise himself up. He panted into the ground, feeling the wet, cold sand enter his mouth, choking him. He felt bile rise up in his throat. What a nice surprise that would be for the elf if he just lay there and suffocated on his own vomit. 

But then hands reached for him and he was turned onto his back, his head lifted up. He wondered that the hands that touched him seemed rather small and soft for an elf. Then his eyes managed to focus on the shadow above him. It was a young woman - her striking green eyes were full of concern but the rage and pain behind were clearly visible.  
She looked down at him.

“Geralt, I am so sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We really are nearing the end. Ciri is there to free him. But it will not be easy to free him from what he has done.
> 
> And I hope I got the Elder Blood story at least halfway right.


	8. Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello Darkness, my old friend.
> 
> Ciri is back - but will he recognize her? And what are Eredin's plans now that he has the Elder Blood in his hands?

He was dazed from the blood loss and looked up at the girl above him. Opening his mouth to say something only a wet moan made it out. He coughed as some of the wet sand stuck in his throat and the movement had the pain from the wound flare up again. 

“You promised to take care of him when I show myself. Keep your promise.”   
Her eyes never left his face. A slight tremor in her voice betrayed that she was deeply worried. Geralt wondered why she would care so much about a stranger. But he didn’t dwell on that for long as his body was about to give up. He could feel a cold creep up along his legs and when he tried to move he couldn’t feel anything below his waist.   
His fingers twitched at his side but soon stopped as they became numb, as well. Death was closer than it had ever been in all his long life. He wanted to give in, let it claim him but a tiny spark of defiance somewhere deep inside refused to let go.

A second shadow leaned over him and he could feel the cool liquid of a healing potion on his lips. Somehow he managed to swallow it down, together with the sand still in his mouth. 

Hands were removing his armor and clothing and someone was obviously sticking a branding iron into the wound at his side. The pain abated after a while, but not before Geralt had bitten through his lips when his body had spasmed from the agony. He was panting and could see little droplets of blood and spittle flying from his lips. 

Some landed on the tan deerskin trousers of the woman who was still kneeling by his side. She didn’t seem to care, but was holding one of his hands in both of hers. Geralt hadn’t felt her taking it, but now the feeling slowly returned into his fingers and he tried to pull away from her. 

He managed to put the hand down at his side and ignored the hurt look in her eyes. The healing potion was already at work and he could feel the numerous small cuts and bruises from the fight begin to mend. Only the arrow wound would need more conventional treatment as well. Watching the healer stitch it together, he grit his teeth when the needle pierced the skin, and the thread was dragged through his flesh. 

Finally the elf had finished with him and he was left kneeling on the ground with a fresh bandage around his middle. Geralt held a hand over it, as if that would help the healing process. But at least it made him feel a bit better. 

“Glad to have been of help.” he rasped in the direction of Eredin who had remained standing close the whole time.   
“Now that you are finished, may I excuse myself. I have some more enjoyable entertainment lined up for the afternoon.”

Before the king was able to answer a sharp voice cut in.  
“What have you done to him? That is not the Geralt of Rivia that I know. He doesn’t even recognize me, and I have seen him do… horrible things.”  
There was a short pause before the ashen-haired girl continued in a voice that was full of fear and pain.  
“What have you done to his soul?”

Geralt looked up to her - his eyes narrowing. What was she talking about? With effort he managed to get to his feet, swaying only slightly. 

“I have no idea who you are, but I know very well who and what I am. Regarding my soul, that is fine as well, thanks for asking.” he sneered in her direction. But then he looked at Eredin, and something ice-cold crawled up his neck and settled at the base of his spine. The elven king was looking at him with something like pity but that was wiped away by triumph after a few heartbeats. 

“You heard the man, my dear. He is quite content with his situation. And he will remain so, as long as you stay at my side, and become what destiny has intended for you.” 

Holding out his hand to her, he was waiting. The girl looked from him to Geralt, who was standing in the cold, shivering and clenching his teeth against the growing headache.   
Finally she took a step towards the Aen Elle and put her hand into his.   
“Promise me.” she whispered.

Eredin bowed his head. “I do.”  
And then he waved to his guards. “Take him to his room. Make it secure.”

Before Geralt could even process what the ‘secure’ part of the order would mean, he was already led away between two elves. They even slowed their steps so that he wasn’t simply dragged across the training area and he was grateful for that. 

He got the ‘secure’ bit the moment they entered his room. The chain from the ceiling was back. It lead through a massive ring that had been set in the stone floor. At least this time there were carpets underneath it. And even a few pillows. Letting himself be shackled and then attached to the chain woke distant memories. But he didn’t fight. This time the chain remained long enough that he could even sit or lie down. Unfortunately the bath was out of reach and he settled himself on the floor trying to recall everything that had just happened. Something was deeply wrong and he would find out what it was. It looked as if he now had all the time in the world to do so.

The next few hours he was left alone. The guards in the room had retreated to the shadows and remained there like statues. All Geralt could hear from them was their breathing. Although he tried, he couldn’t manage to meditate. Not even the usual half-deep state of mind was open to him.   
Giving up after trying for several times he lay down, carefully avoiding any pressure on his injured side. He was still weak from the blood loss, something that the healing potion was only partially able to restore.  
Soon he fell into a deep sleep. Dreams whirled around his mind, some disturbing, some arousing and some so undefined and strange that he was left with a deep longing and feeling of emptiness when he woke several times during the night. 

The rays of the sun were already streaming into the room, warming his body and casting a warm glow on the muted colors of the room when he finally awoke. Someone must have been to the room recently, because a tray with food and hot tea had been placed in his reach. It was deeply disturbing that he had slept so deeply that even the bustling around of a servant hadn’t woken him. 

Carefully Geralt sat up and reached for the cup. The tea was still hot and steaming in the cool morning air. A quick sniff told him that it was laced with a healing potion but nothing more sinister. Taking a few careful sips he let the sweet liquid run down his throat and relished in the immediate effect the potion had on his body. 

Immediately after he had finished eating and was settling himself back into the cushions, a slave entered and removed the empty plates. Geralt watched the woman and recognized her - she had been one of his. She quickly looked up at him but evaded his eyes. With quick steps she left the room. So it seemed that that kind of pleasure was no longer available to him. Geralt inwardly cursed the elven king and the Aen Elle in general.

His musings were interrupted when a very familiar and deeply unwelcome figure strode into the room. Caranthir didn’t do anything to hide the glee in his voice when he stopped in front of the witcher.   
“You look horrible. Did you have a bad day yesterday?”

Geralt didn’t answer him, but noted that the mage was standing within the small circle of movement the chain left him. And Caranthir knew that he had noted it - the elf moved even closer.

“Planning on doing something stupid, are you? But your teeth have been pulled, White Wolf. Even if you wanted to bite, you are too weak.” Caranthir was clearly goading him on.  
But Geralt was neither in the mood nor did he have the strength, just as the elf had said.   
So he just leaned back and looked up into that beautiful, otherworldly face.

“When you are done gloating at me will you tell me why Eredin sent you?” Geralt could see a twitch in Caranthir’s eyes at the mention of the king. So he had been right, the Navigator wasn’t here out of his own accord.

“The king expressed his wish to test your mental state.” Geralt felt a cold shiver run over his body at those words.  
“And I am here to check if you are capable of surviving those tests.” The sneer on Caranthir’s face made Geralt feel nauseous.  
“But before we start, he wants to talk to you. He will be with you when he has finished with his morning audiences.” The elf paused and tilted his head slightly.  
“I must admit, that I had planned to spend the time here with you in a more entertaining way. But in your current state you wouldn’t be in a suitable state to talk to the king when I’m finished with you. Which leaves us to do some talking.”

To Geralt’s astonishment the elf sat himself down onto the cushions and immediately a slave entered, carrying a tray of drinks which the young man carefully placed on the floor before leaving again.   
Caranthir slowly filled two cups and held one out for Geralt, who took it hesitantly. 

“Are we seriously going to make small talk until the king graces us with his presence?” Geralt huffed incredulously. Having to talk to the mage was as low on his list of favorite things as chatting with a bruxa. The mage couldn’t be serious.  
But Caranthir only smiled tightly at the Witcher.

“I thought you might have a few questions about the Elder Blood. And I am willing to answer them.” The elf took a slow sip from his cup and watched Geralt intently over the rim. Taking a deep gulp from his own wine, the Witcher thought about that offer. He had indeed several questions as to what had happened the day before. But he wanted Eredin to answer them. But he decided that talking to Caranthir first might not be such a bad idea.

“Why did you need me?” This was the one question that had constantly echoed in his mind. He simply couldn’t fathom why he was so important to their whole cause.   
And so he was rather surprised to see the unbelieving look in Caranthir’s eyes and hear the incredulity in the elf’s voice.

“You really do not know? You still have no idea why he brought you here or why he did what he did to you yesterday?”   
Caranthir stared at the Witcher for a few heartbeats before he got himself under control.  
“Then my magic worked even better than I had intended.” He sounded extremely pleased with himself.  
Geralt snorted and leaned forward, the chains around his wrists clanking as he pulled at it. 

“I have asked you a question.” he growled, his anger rising. Geralt was growing tired of the games the elves kept playing with him. Especially because it seemed that he himself was running in circles around a solution that kept hiding from him. Every time he felt that he had found it, he was stuck in a new circle with another riddle for him to solve.   
And the most frustrating part was that he somehow knew that it was always the same riddle, repeating itself over and over again, and whenever he came too close to solving it, he was thrown back by some invisible force, and had to start all over again.

He grit his teeth in frustration and his hands balled into fists in his lap as he stared at the mage, fully aware of his helplessness and not liking it one bit.

Caranthir only swirled the wine in his cup, seemingly contemplating the contents before he finally looked up at the witcher with a cruel smile on his face that showed his small teeth.

“You were brought here as a lure. As bait for the Elder Blood. She has been here before but she escaped us. This time Eredin made sure this wouldn’t happen again. At least not before he bedded her and got her to bear a child. The one who will return the power of the Elder Blood to our people.”  
He played with his cup before continuing “You were a tool to achieve a goal. And you fulfilled your purpose rather well. There were even a few additional uses you were good for.” At the last sentence Caranthir's tongue slowly licked over his lower lip and Geralt felt the conditioning in his mind answer by sending a hot stab down his body. He took a deep breath.

“So now that I have served my purpose - what are you planning next? Kill me, keep me for sport? Make a slave out of me?” He hoped that they would just kill him. If not, he would make them. 

But Caranthir only laughed “Oh my, why so dramatic? You are still worth something. At least until Eredin is finished with her.”  
He leered at Geralt “Do you know who she is? You have not asked me that. Don’t you want to know?”

The Witcher looked at him and opened his mouth to say something but his brain seemed to blank out. Geralt shook his head, and groaned as a sudden stab of pain shot through his skull. 

This time the elf’s laughter was clearly delighted “It is incredible how your brain is still working against you. You have no idea what is really going on. I am so looking forward when you finally get to the truth of it all.” His voice lowered to something sinister   
“And then I will see you finally destroyed.”

Geralt wanted to answer, but again the pain shot through him, and he didn’t remember what he had wanted to say. His mind seemed to have become a dark, horrifying cave, filled with whispering terrors and unimaginable agony. He tumbled into it, unseeing and utterly powerless.

Feeling cold fingers on his face prying his teeth apart, he realized that he had had a seizure. He could still feel the last tremors of his muscles dying away, and the renewed pain from his side told him that something had torn again. 

Looking up he saw an elven healer trying to get him to drink something. In the background he could see the mage, who was clearly enjoying the situation. Then his wandering eyes found the tall figure of Eredin. The king stood with his arms crossed and his face betrayed no emotion. Only a short flicker in his eyes looked like concern. But he didn’t say a word. 

Groaning, Geralt let the healer renew the stitches he had ripped open during his seizure, and he was relieved when the man finally rose and left the room. Closing his eyes he wished for nothing more than being left alone. 

“I am here to tell you a story.” Eredin’s voice was soft and that unexpected gentleness had Geralt open his eyes and stare at the elf.   
The king was still standing in front of him and continued in his quiet tone “When a man invoked the law of surprise, and the child that was promised to him was born, they were bonded by destiny. A destiny that would bring them together, no matter how far apart they would be. She was his as much as he was hers. But she also had another destiny - one that came from an ancient prophesy. She was to save the worlds by bearing the child that would have the power of the Elder Blood.”

Eredin looked down at Geralt with something like pity in his eyes.  
“That man was you, Gwynbleidd. You invoked the law of surprise on her parents and you raised her like your own daughter. And now you have led her here, back to me. Cirilla will now become the mother of my child, just as the prophecies foretold.”

A dark fog had descended on Geralt’s mind at those last words. He tried desperately to stay afloat, and not to sink down into the bottomless depths of that part of his being where he had never dared to venture during the last months. Panting, he tried to keep himself from falling apart. He had heard the words and even understood their meaning, but something in him was fighting against the realization that came with Eredin’s story.

He had finally realized that it was all connected - the experiments, the conditioning - even the headache which was part of his brain fighting against the elven mages spells. 

He groaned and buried his face in his hands, ignoring the cold metal of the chain against his skin.   
“You ploughing bastard.” he managed between taking desperate breaths. And then he realized something else, and this time a shaking laughter tore from him.   
“Willingly… I always came to you ‘willingly’… you sadistic, ploughing bastard…” he couldn’t talk anymore. Feeling like his brain tried to claw it’s way out of his skull he felt the seizures coming back. But this time Caranthir stepped up and muttered a spell. Geralt suddenly felt his muscles loosen up and relaxing.  
He took a deep breath, utterly relieved. And then his brain exploded.

Later he could only remember a feeling as if he had stared to long into the sun. He couldn’t see anything. Only after a while shadows started to come out of the whiteness that seemed to surround him. Voices drifted over, and he found himself back on the cushions in the room, hands still bound and pain still radiating from his side. 

But although everything seemed to be the same as before, nothing was. Memories started pouring in, searing into his mind like a hot iron poker. 

Caranthir and Eredin both stood towering over him. Neither of the elves spoke or moved. They just kept watching him. As if he were a dangerous animal that could attack any second.   
And as much as he wanted to kill both Aen Elle he couldn’t even have hurt a fly right then. He felt incredibly tired and weak. Everything he had done in his time with the Wild Hunt had suddenly taken on a different meaning. He no longer despised the woman who had tried to save her daughter, there was no longer a sense of disgust when he thought of the man who had died in his room, bleeding out at his feet. He no longer thought of his slaves as a simple means to sate his lust. And when he remembered the sound of the boy’s neck snapping in the fist of the Aen Elle warrior, his hands started trembling.

And anger was no longer the only feeling in him. It was nearly drowned out by an ever growing feeling of guilt and shame. Some rational part of him tried to convince him that it hadn’t been his fault, that he had been under Caranthir’s magic all the time but he remembered too clearly how his hands had wielded his sword and killed innocents, how his hands had torn apart the shift of the trembling woman in front of him, how his hands had hit a slave because he didn’t bring the right kind of wine. And that he had felt nothing then. 

A strange sound escaped him then - a deep moan that carried all the pain that was piling up in his mind.   
“Stop this… please.” Somehow he managed to look up at Eredin. He was now so desperate that he pleaded with the man who had caused it all in the first place. 

The king remained quiet for a while before walking closer and squatting down in front of him. A cold hand reached out and touched his face. Geralt stared into the elf’s pale-blue eyes   
“Ploughing elf… stop playing your games.”   
His voice was rough and it took all his remaining strength to continue “And keep your hands off Ciri, or I will end you.”   
The threat sounded empty even to his ears and Eredin only raised his eyebrow “You still want to be the hero, don’t you? I have already told you - there are no happy endings for heroes.”

A sad smile played on his lips as he removed his hand from Geralt’s face, his fingertips lingering on the Witcher’s sweat-covered skin.   
Standing up he turned to Caranthir “Make sure he is taken care of. I don’t want him to die or suffer unnecessarily. And you can bring the girl to him. I can imagine they have a lot to talk about. Also she needs to know that he is treated well.”   
Eredin looked back down at Geralt “I keep my promises.”  
And with that he left the room. 

The look on Caranthir’s face betrayed his feelings, and it was clear that he had other intentions with Geralt than his king. But both the Witcher and the mage knew that Caranthir wouldn’t dare act against Eredin’s command. 

And so the Aen Elle sent for some of his potions, and started to murmur incantations that had Geralt feel like he was floating. He felt light-headed, the pain receded somewhere deep in his mind and he was able to breath freely again. 

“These are just to dampen your emotions. I will lower the dosage slowly so you can adapt to having them back.” Caranthir handed him a small vial with a pink liquid. Without hesitation Geralt downed the contents. It tasted strangely sweet, with a slight bitter aftertaste. 

Hearing light steps behind him, he turned his head and his breath stopped in his throat. It was like he was seeing her for the first time. When he had seen her shadow and then again in the training arena he hadn’t known who she was. Then she was just some stranger, but now she was… Ciri, … his Ciri. The pain and guilt in him were overtaken by a feeling of pure joy. Not even the potion could dampen that. He reveled in the sweet agony that flooded him as he took her in. She was wearing elven clothing - light tan breeches, a white tunic and a grey kilt that reached to her knees. Soft leather slippers had her walk nearly without making a sound.   
Stopping just outside the reach of his chain she looked down at him and then back to Caranthir. 

The elven mage slowly inclined his head “I am sorry, but I am to remain here.” Ciri continued to glare at him, and a faint smile showed on his face. With a mocking gesture he walked to the pool and pretended to watch the city below.

Ciri stepped closer and sat down, hesitation clearly visible in her movements. Geralt still looked at her as if he was afraid she would disappear again. His hands lay in his lap and he had clenched them into fists. Everything in him screamed to grab her, to hold her tight, to never let her go again. 

But looking at her face had that intention die down immediately. Her look was hard, cold and full of fury.   
“What they have done to you… what Eredin has done to you - I will never forgive him for that.” Her voice trembled and Geralt realized that her anger was not directed at him. Seeing her like that, with her eyes blazing woke a memory of her in him. When she was seething with rage at the peasant who had stabbed and killed him in Rivia. He remembered how she was ready to leave him and Yennefer in the tower to go back and avenge them. Then he had talked to her, until she had calmed down enough to see how pointless this hate of hers had been.   
“Ciri…” he lifted his hands, annoyed as the shackles stopped him. But she looked at him and into his eyes, and her hands grabbed his.

Geralt just closed his fingers over her small hands. He took a deep breath at the feeling of finally touching her again and he closed his eyes for a few heartbeats. When he opened them again he saw something of his own emotions mirrored in her eyes.  
“I am sorry. When he got Yennefer I didn’t know what his true intentions were. If I had known - if Yen had known - we would never have played along with his demands. We would never have him use one of us to get to you. I would rather have died and I know that Yen would have, too.”

Ciri just squeezed his fingers. A small smile softened her eyes “I know Geralt. But I am somehow grateful for Eredin not to tell you the truth. You are still alive.”

With a small huff Geralt looked down at their joined hands. He could feel the sword callouses on her palms, a mirror of his own hands. His thumb stroked over the skin of the back of her hand. Finding a scar there he lifted his gaze questioningly.  
“It was a nekker. It wanted to drag me to it’s nest before I cut off it’s head.” Ciri shrugged. “The claw went through the leather of my glove.”   
Geralt smiled “So you are a Witcher now?”   
With a huff the young woman pulled her hand from his and pushed a strand of her ashen hair behind an ear.   
“I am as much as witcher as you are a sorceress.” she answered with a sly smile. 

Geralt gripped her remaining hand in his “Do you know about Yen? Have you heard anything from her?” Ciri looked at him and nodded “She is in the south. When you freed her she was in a rather bad state. She couldn’t remember anything. Not even who she was. Letho brought her to the imperial court in Nilfgaard. Their mages have been treating her ever since.”

Closing his eyes again, Geralt tried to calm himself down. Despite the potion a furious anger had grown in him while listening to Ciri’s words. There were even more reasons for him to kill Eredin and his generals. He looked over to the pool where Caranthir was still seemingly contemplating the finer details of elven architecture.

A tug at his hand had him return his gaze to Ciri. She looked at him and mouthed something at him, “We need to get out”. He nodded grimly but at the same moment the elven mage had decided to return to them. 

“While you are planning your escape together, might I remind you that you promised the king something?” His voice was dangerously quiet as he looked down at Ciri.  
“And that this promise is deeply entwined with the Vatt’ghern and his continued well-being.” the words were slicing through the silence of the room “If you just move the wrong way I will assume the promise is null and void and he will return to my tower. For as long as I can keep him breathing.”   
At those words he leaned forward and his hand closed around Geralt’s throat like a vice “And I will do my best to keep you breathing and screaming for a very long time.” The old heat shone in his eyes and with horror Geralt realized that the conditioning was still there - he heard the moan that escaped his lips as if it came from somebody else, but the heat that built in his body was too real and too intense for him to ignore.

Finally Caranthir loosened his grip and Geralt flopped forward, taking deep, desperate breaths trying to get some semblance of control back.   
Seeing the shocked expression on Ciri’s face hit him like a punch in the gut. She knew exactly what had just happened. And he saw that she also remembered what she had seen through the window in Eredin’s bedroom. Somehow he knew that she had been there all the time - she had seen how he had approached the elven king, how he had thrown him onto the bed and how he had let himself be taken by the Aen Elle. The knowledge that he had been under a spell and conditioned didn’t help much. 

Geralt fully expected Ciri to pull her hand from his and walk away. But she lifted both her hands and touched his face, holding him, and he closed his eyes.   
“I will help you.” she whispered, and before he could open his eyes her hands were gone, and he heard the rustle of her clothes as she stood up. 

Her quiet steps disappeared from the room, and Geralt remained sitting on the floor, eyes closed and waiting for Caranthir to leave as well.

Laughing softly, the elven mage finally left Geralt alone in his room. Alone with all the emotions and feelings he was no longer used to. And he felt the effect of the potion waning already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He remembers everything. That cannot be a good thing.


	9. Desperation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rather short chapter.  
> But it contains some action. Ciri does not react well to how the elves are treating Geralt.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Warning: it contains self-harm. I've updated the tags as well.

He went through several breathing exercises without any success whatsoever. Nothing kept the memories from tormenting him. Whenever he managed to turn away from one horror, another was already waiting for him.

Never before had Geralt wished that the rumors about the emotionless monster he was supposed to be were true. If he could just shrug it all off and move on. All his life he had worked to distance himself from his emotions and feelings. But the failure of the elven magic had also caused all his own defenses to come down. And now he was unable to rebuild even the smallest wall in his mind. 

There was no distance, no respite, no place to hide himself from the agony of living through it all again. He lay in the darkness, eyes wide open and trying to control his breathing. 

When the sun rose he was still lying there, having not slept for a single minute. Geralt hoped that Ciri would come back, but she didn’t. Nobody entered the room except a slave who brought something to eat and the healer who looked at his wound. Geralt let the elf change the bandages around his chest without showing any reaction. 

Watching the sun make it’s way across the sky, Geralt was nearly desperate come late afternoon. Feeling as if he was about to lose himself, he started to pound against the bandages at his side, in a last ditch attempt to have something to ground him to reality, even if it was just pain. Soon the white linen started darkening from the reopened wound and his fist was colored a crimson red.  
But he didn’t stop. He wouldn’t end up as a slobbering, whimpering pile of flesh on the floor, whose mind had dissolved and who was reduced to nothing.  
Realizing that again it was pain that was his last, thin line to sanity and reality - just as with Caranthir’s magic before - he barked out a laugh that seemed to echo forever in the room. Pain, the one constant companion in his life that had never left him since the trials.

After the sun had set he would have even welcomed the elven mage. He was desperate for someone or something to distract him from his thoughts. But he remained alone. The second night was somehow even worse, because he grew weaker by the hour.  
His mind started playing tricks on him - he saw shadows lurk around the terrace, circling the pool and drawing near him. But never close enough - before he could make out any details they were gone.  
They could have been people who had died because of him or just simply monsters he had killed on his contracts. All he knew was that they were not alive. 

The slave who entered in the morning raised him from his half-unconscious state. Geralt heard the clang of the tray on the floor when the shocked man stood in the doorway. Slowly lifting his head he saw the guards rush in, weapons drawn and ready to fight. But there was nothing to fight against - only a half-dead man, lying on blood-soaked cushions, who was pounding a fist against the sodden bandages at his side in a slow and eerily steady rhythm. For a short time the wet noise of his flesh hitting the blood-soaked linen and his quiet groans were the only sound. 

Then both the slave and the guards disappeared. Geralt lay back and looked up at the ceiling, just like he had done during the night. 

A commotion from outside had him look up and he saw Eredin, closely followed by his mage, enter the room. This time the concern on the kings face was clearly visible and no mask hid it. Caranthir swore under his breath when he saw the state the Witcher was in. He immediately started casting magic and Geralt felt the soft cloud of indifference settle down on him again. As relief swept through him he couldn’t help the deep moan that escaped him.

More people entered but by then Geralt didn’t care anymore. He was blissfully cut off from everything. It took three attempts to get him to respond to the questions the healer asked and his answers were slow and he had to put in real effort on concentrating.

Guards opened his shackles, the skin on his wrists bloodied and chafed. Two healers immediately set to work and renewed the bandages on his arrow-wound before treating his hands. He was given healing potions and something to help restore the blood he had lost.  
As soon as the healing effect of the potion was allowing it, Geralt tried to stand up. He was swaying but managed to stay upright and even take a few steps toward Eredin. 

Despite the spell from Caranthir he felt rage rise in him, and he embraced it as he reached up his hand and grabbed the king at the collar of his tunic, dragging the stunned Aen Elle closer to his face.  
“I will kill you and your generals and then I will make sure that your people will never have the power of the Elder Blood. You will die in the knowledge that you failed, that your so-called prophecy wasn’t even worth the ink it was written in.” His voice was low and dangerous and when he looked at the king his eyes narrowed into tiny slits and the yellow irises glowed.

Eredin visibly swallowed and held up a hand to stop the guards who were approaching them.  
But he controlled himself quickly. Something like amusement shone in his eyes.  
“You are very sure of yourself, Vatt’ghern. I am looking forward to us fighting against each other again. The last time was rather entertaining.” He smiled.  
“But let’s not get ahead of ourselves, shall we? You are in no condition to utter any threats, let alone fight. Right now it isn’t even certain that you will regain your sanity. You might as well end up a drooling idiot, sitting in some locked room and being spoon-fed by a slave.”  
Caranthir huffed a laugh at the last sentence.  
With a raised eyebrow Eredin looked down at his chest, where Geralt’s fingers were still fisting the fabric of his tunic.  
“Would you mind letting that go? It is rather pointless, anyway.”

Geralt slowly released his grip and in a childish whim wiped his hand on his breeches. Caranthir glared at him, which he found extremely satisfying. He smiled at the mage before turning back to Eredin.

“I told you what I will do. It might not be right now or even in the next months or years but I will come for you. Because I know you will not kill me.” At the last sentence he pinned down the king with his eyes and he saw that the Aen Elle knew that as well. Eredin himself would never simply kill him. He would torture him, hurt him but he would not kill him. Unlike his generals, especially Caranthir, who would have no qualms whatsoever to end him. 

The king’s answer was however cut short by a small, lithe figure flying at him and sending him to the floor with a punch to the gut and knee to the head.  
Ciri was livid and would have continued, if not for Geralt who grabbed her at the shoulder and pulled her back.  
She turned around and her accusing glare hit him hard.  
“Ciri, don’t. This is not the right time.” He spoke to her calmly, like he had done that time at the tower, when she was about to kill the peasant.  
And like then, she just looked at him, searching for something. Geralt never knew what it was she was looking for, but again she seemed to find it in his eyes. She nodded slowly and turned to stand at his side.

Crossing her arms in front of her she sneered down at the Aen Elle, who was still on the floor, wiping the blood from his broken nose.

“Is this how you keep your promises? I was told by one of your goons that Geralt has gone crazy over night and is half dead, ripping out his own flesh. Do you really think you can treat him like that, hoping that your ploughing healing potions and sub-par magician will be able to repair him, like a piece of dented armor that you bring to the blacksmith?  
I will never share your bed or give you your so-called savior. And if you should decide to breed me by force I will make sure that I never give birth to that abomination of yours.”

Her eyes were blazing but tears were running down her cheeks. She was desperate but not willing to yield even an inch. Geralt sought her hand and held her tight in his. He could feel her fingers tighten in response. 

Caranthir looked at them both with a glare that carried not only contempt but also the promise of death.  
“Varh’he.” he spat out, taking a few steps in their direction. But before he could do anything else, Eredin had put up a hand, and held him back.

“This is not how I intend to have this handled. There will be no deaths today. As I have promised, the Vatt’ghern will not be harmed. However, I cannot control what he is inflicting on himself. Caranthir will restore some of his mind’s barriers by magic. At least for the time being.”  
His voice had returned to it’s usual calm coldness. He was looking at Geralt before he turned his head and his eyes locked onto Ciri. She tried to remain unimpressed but Geralt felt her pulse speeding up when the ice-blue irises of the Aen Elle suddenly burned with a strange fire that he knew all too well.  
“You, little zireael, will come to my bed… willingly.”

At that last word something snapped in Geralt, cutting through the indifference and he forgot all his weakness and restraint. With a roar he threw himself forward, hands stretched out, ready to squeeze the life out of the king, not caring what would happen to him afterwards. But Eredin had expected just that. And Caranthir was ready.  
Geralt found himself on his knees before the tall elf, unable to even lift his hands or speak, completely under the mage’s spell.

“It pains me that you seem to have such a violent reaction to your memories of our time together. Although I seem to remember that you truly enjoyed it. You were even begging me to take you and let you come. And not just once.” Eredin’s voice was low and silken, but a sharp edge was hiding underneath.  
He lifted Geralt’s head up to look him in the eyes. And with a small smile he glanced over to Ciri, who watched them trembling with rage. “Maybe I will let you watch as I take her, she might be just as entertaining as you were. You should witness the moment when I plant my seed in her and she becomes the vessel for the child of the Elder Blood.”

Geralt just closed his eyes and clenched his fists - there was nothing else he could do, anyway. 

When the scream broke loose, every head jerked towards it’s source. Looking over to Ciri she seemed to have grown in size. The room became darker and the light from the sun seemed to be sucked into a swirling vortex with Ciri at it’s center. She looked like she was on fire, flames dancing over her limbs, dropping from her fingers.

Geralt heard Caranthir shout incantations - his voice dripping with panic. But the spells did nothing as she slowly advanced on the king and his general. The guards who were attacking her with their swords drawn were thrown back like toy soldiers.

Only Eredin remained calm and even smiled as Ciri walked towards him. He looked like he had known something like that would happen all along. He lifted his hands and cold, blue flames flickered on his fingertips before they shot forward and engulfed the young woman.

With Caranthir trying to build a protective barrier around his king and himself, Geralt was finally able to move again. He got up and ran to the other side of the room, where the guards were still trying to get back on their feet, and snatched a sword from the floor. His movements were slow and clumsy but the elven warriors were still stunned from Ciri’s spell so they were easy targets. 

Knowing that soon other fighters would arrive, he turned back to Ciri and Eredin. They needed to get out of here as quickly as possible. Ciri was still holding herself against the two elven mages. Eredin’s spell had considerably dampened her flames but she was still sending a fiery ribbon of magic at the shield Caranthir had built up. And maintaining it seemed to take all his power. Sweat was running down his face and his neck, his face crunched up in concentration and pain visible in his eyes. 

Without hesitation Geralt took his chances and sent his blade flying across the room. It would have speared Caranthir under the arm through the ribs if the mage hadn’t somehow felt the threat he was in, and turned towards the Witcher. The tip of the blade hit his chest armor and was deflected, clanging harmlessly on the floor. But the impact had been enough to break his concentration and the force had dented his armor and most likely broken a few ribs.  
Geralt had started running towards the elf immediately after he had thrown the sword, and was on Caranthir before the mage was able to build up any defenses. 

The impact of Geralt’s attack threw the elf on his back, and the Witcher put his knee on the dent in the armor, pressing down hard. The mage groaned in pain and his hands scraped uselessly over the Witcher’s legs. With a deliberate motion Geralt moved his hand to Caranthir’s hips and drew his dagger. He pressed the sharp blade at the elf’s throat, cutting deep but not yet severing any vital blood vessel, while his other hand was clenched around Caranthir’s neck, holding him still. 

“You deserve to suffer, but I don’t have the time or patience for that.” Geralt snarled and increased the pressure on the mage’s skin. He wanted to slowly cut up Caranthir into little pieces, listening to his screams and pleadings. 

Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder and the whole world seemed to come to a standstill. Caranthir’s heartbeat under his hands felt strangely slow - even slower than his own - although he distinctly remembered that the elf’s heart had been drumming fast against his fingers just moments ago.  
“Come on - it is time to go.” Ciri’s voice sounded strange - as if coming from another room. She grabbed his hand. Looking up he stared into the eyes of a strange creature. He wasn’t sure if that was still his Ciri. But the voice left no doubt that they had to leave. Standing up he looked over to Eredin. The king was still casting his magic against the spot where Ciri had been. But he looked like a statue. 

Stumbling after her, Geralt followed Ciri through the palace. Everyone seemed to have been frozen in time. But when he looked at an archer practicing at the training grounds he could see that his arrow was not completely frozen but still moving. But it was so slow it was easy to overtake it at a leisurely walking pace.  
Ciri dragged him along - never letting his hand go. They made their way out of the city along the river and up into the mountains, following the same road as he had during the hunt on the unicorns. 

After an hour of running Ciri suddenly collapsed, dragging Geralt with her. His knees hit the hard rocks on the path and he fell forward on his hands, panting harshly. Ciri was moaning at his side, her eyes closed and not responding when he tried to shake her and called her name.  
With a curse he managed to get back to his feet and picked her up. Dragging her a few hundred feet into the forest, away from the path he finally let her down in the shadow of a large tree. 

Sitting down himself he tried to understand what had just happened. Somehow Ciri seemed to possess magic that could take it up with the Aen Elle. And she had basically stopped time to let them escape. 

Looking at the sky he realized that time was back to normal. They did have a lead on the elves but it wasn’t as much as he would have liked. As soon as the hounds of the Wild Hunt were on their scent, it would only take them a few hours to catch up with them. 

He rested his head against the trunk of the tree, trying to take an inventory of himself. The wound at his side still throbbed but hadn’t opened up again. All the small aches had been taken care of by the healing potion and his mind was still relatively calm, thanks to the elven spell.  
But Geralt wasn’t sure how long it would remain stable. He doubted that Caranthir had created it to be permanent, and he didn’t know if there was maybe some chance that it could be removed from a distance.

At his side Ciri started to stir. When she looked up at him, her eyes were back to their usual bright green. A glint was visible in them and a mischievous smile spread on her lips.  
“You didn’t see that coming, did you?” Slowly she sat herself up and looked him up and down, clearly checking if he had sustained any injuries.

“No - I didn’t. But something tells me that you didn’t either…” 

She stared down at her fingers. “You are right, I hadn’t planned it that way.”

“You had a plan?” His voice was tinged with disbelief. “Ever thought of telling me about it - or…?” He had to stop himself before he said something he would regret.

Turning her head back to him, he could see the frown on her forehead.  
“Do you think I wouldn’t have done something the moment I came to Tir ná Lia, if I had been able to?”  
She remained quiet for a while.  
“The power that I used is not something I can call whenever I want to. Controlling it when it opens up to me is hard enough, but calling it like I can tell my body to move my sword in a certain pattern to attack someone, is impossible. Although I have tried, but I need more training to really master it.” 

“But you called it, down there in the palace.” Geralt looked back the way they had come from. 

“I didn’t call it - it came to me. Sometimes, when I am desperate enough it seems that the power finds a way to fill me up. But it never is something I can do simply by wanting to do it. Only when it opens to me, I am able to use it. At the beginning I wasn’t even able to do that.”  
She smiled a little.  
“But it is amazing - I can slow time around me. And because I held your hand, you were able to join my… time-bubble. I have no better way to describe it. It is great for fighting.”

“So you cannot do it again right now. We need to get away from here - from this world.” 

“I know,…” she looked up to where they could see the mountain tops above the trees, “…there is a place in the mountains. I was shown it when I came here to find you.” Her voice trailed off.

“You had help coming here? Can we count on them to help you again?” Although he wasn’t eager on trusting strangers he would take any help he could get to leave this ploughing world.

Ciri looked at him with the strangest expression in her eyes. “Although they might help me again, they will never agree to help you.”  
“The unicorns helped me.” She finished with a quiet voice. 

Geralt said nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK - so they made it out. But they are still on the world of the Aen Elle. And their only hope to get away are the unicorns. With Ihuarraquax gone and Geralt's involvment in that it could become tricky. And how long will the barrier in his mind hold up?


	10. Unwanted truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ok - I am guilty of indulging myself. As we are nearly finished I had to add some more smut. 
> 
> Sub!Geralt and sadistic elves - these are for you, aeiparthenos.

He ground his teeth and stared ahead, before he got back to his feet. Holding out a hand he turned to Ciri.  
“Come on, we need to get going. When we find the unicorns, they can take you back. I will find my own way.”

She let him pull her to her feet, not commenting on his suggestions but her defiant look let him know quite clearly what she thought of his plans.  
“We need to get up a certain pass. I don’t know it’s name but I know what it looks like. Up there is an old portal that I can activate. I have already tried it a few times, and it worked most of the time. If I can do it again, we won’t need the help of the unicorns.” Her voice was carefully kept neutral and she started up the hillside without waiting for Geralt.

They walked for several hours before taking another break. Neither of them was talking much. When they continued, Geralt took the lead and they kept going up in as straight a line as possible. If the Wild Hunt was chasing them, they would have to use the winding road that led up the hill. Which mostly left the hounds as their major problem. Those beasts didn’t need a road. 

But even when the sun set and darkness made finding their way difficult, nothing seemed to catch up with them. Keeping their breaks short and only drinking water from the little streams that came down the mountain-side, they trudged on through the night. Only after both started stumbling and Ciri nearly had dropped down a deep gorge because she had basically fallen asleep on her feet, Geralt decided that they stop and sleep.  
After two hours he pushed on, he had kept watch and only dared to meditate, and his body was way too exhausted to give anything more than just doggedly putting one foot in front of the other. 

The sun was already high up in the sky when Ciri stopped and shaded her eyes with her hand. She pointed ahead, in between two mountains a gap was visible, with a narrow green band of trees reaching between them.  
“That is the pass. We are close. The portal is up there near a cairn. When we find the path that leads over the pass we will find it.”

Geralt stood beside her, his breath wheezing, the wound had started throbbing again and he had been fighting against the desperation that had set in a few hours ago, when Caranthir’s spell had finally stopped working.  
Again the specters had started to creep in at the edge of his vision. They were following behind the trees, slowly closing in. 

Ciri turned towards him, a smile on her lips. But when she looked at his face, it drained quickly.  
“The spell has stopped working, hasn’t it?” 

Geralt only nodded. And then he continued, slowly stepping around Ciri, walking towards the pass. He couldn’t and wouldn’t talk right now. He tried to focus his mind only on the small green ribbon between the dark and rocky mountainsides. It worked quite well until they were ambushed by the hounds. 

Surrounded by 5 of the huge beasts neither Ciri nor Geralt stood a chance of fleeing. Fighting was also a bad idea - although Geralt had managed to grab a sword when they had left, but Ciri was completely unarmed. 

“Can you use your signs?” Ciri panted as they stood back to back, circling slowly.  
“What signs?” Geralt asked after he had feinted at one of the hounds, driving the beast back and enlarging the circle that had started closing in around them. Ciri didn’t answer but he heard her swear under her breath. 

“I cannot call the power, there is nothing there to draw from.” she sounded resigned. 

Growling, the hounds started to tighten the circle around them again. And this time they attacked. Geralt managed to cut down one hound but was unable to prevent the next one from going for his throat. Pushing him into the wet ground, the huge animal bared its teeth above him and he could feel the saliva drip down on his skin. But it didn’t finish what it had started - growling the beast remained above him, not letting him out of its sight.

When a very familiar voice came from behind the hound, Geralt cursed lewdly. His anger grew and he could feel how it overwhelmed all other feelings. He hung on to it as if his life depended on it - which it actually did.

“I must say - that was quite the impressive feat you showed at the palace little dh’oine.” Caranthir’s voice drawled and when Geralt managed to lift his head, he could see that the elven mage had Ciri lifted up by her throat, feet dangling in the air. 

With a growl that even put the hounds to shame the Witcher grabbed the lower jaw of the animal above him, ignoring the sharp teeth that bit into his hand and pulled it towards him, before he shoved it away and to the side with everything he had left in him. The beast whined shrilly and Geralt could hear the sharp crack as its jaw was broken and left dangling uselessly. He grabbed his sword, which he had dropped when the hound had pushed him down, and drove the blade into the beast, right behind it’s front leg, killing it instantly.

The other hounds had already retreated when Caranthir had shown up and when Geralt stalked towards the mage, Caranthir looked at him with the same interest someone might have for a particularly nasty bug that wouldn’t stop pestering him. 

He was still holding Ciri up - the girl was fighting him tooth and claw but was growing weaker - and lifted his free hand in Geralt’s direction, ready to cast a spell.  
“Caranthir - stop this at once. And let the girl down. I will not let you harm her.” Eredin’s sharp voice cut in and the mage lowered both hands. Ciri simply dropped to the ground and Geralt was at her side immediately. She drew wheezing breaths, close to hyperventilating. 

“Shhh… you remember the breathing exercises Vesemir taught you? Follow them. Breath in… hold your breath… breath out. Slowly.” Geralt held her up and went through the exercise with her, ignoring both Aen Elle, who had come closer. He also ignored the several dozen riders of the Wild Hunt, who had surrounded them.  
Slowly Ciri’s breath began to even out and the panic in her eyes receded.  
Geralt looked down at her, a small smile playing at his lips.  
“Feeling better?”  
When she nodded, he whispered so that only she could hear “…then run.”

Geralt was at his feed in an instant and attacked the elven warriors the furthest from Ciri. He no longer had the sword but when the first elf dropped to the floor with the bones of his face smashed by a kick from the Witcher, Geralt caught his sword and whirled around, immediately decapitating another elf. 

In the short time it took the rest of them to finally come to terms with his attack and mount a counter attack, he had killed another three warriors.  
When his strength was finally completely depleted he simply dropped his sword to the ground before he went down on his knees.

He dropped into unconsciousness when the first cries among the elves started, followed by a roar from Caranthir - Ciri had managed to flee.

________

Waking up the first thing he heard was a sigh coming from someone at his side.  
“You are becoming quite a nuisance, Vatt’ghern. As much as I enjoy playing games with you, you have a tendency to spoil them.”  
Eredin’s voice was calm and sounded vaguely amused. 

Geralt slowly opened his eyes and turned his head towards were the elf was standing. Being in a rather uncomfortable position himself, strung up by his wrists, hanging from the branch of a rather large tree, he tried to lift himself up on his toes, taking some of the strain from his shoulders. It couldn’t have been Caranthir who had him strung up like that or he would be swinging freely, slowly suffocating from the strain to his diaphragm.

“Stop playing, then.” he rasped, before he continued “… but I guess I’ve already told you that, elf.”

Eredin smiled. “I know, but then - I have also used you as bait once, and I fully intend to do so again.” 

Geralt just groaned, he was still trying to hold on to his anger, just to keep everything else that was lurking in his mind at bay.  
“Mind if you call your mage? I could do with a little spell of ignorance. Don’t know if I can listen to you any longer.” he bit out.

He was completely unprepared for the hand that suddenly touched his neck and moved up into his hair.  
“I believe that this is the first time you actually want me near you - I guess I should feel flattered.” Caranthir’s lips were near his ear and his voice so low that only Geralt could hear him.  
The long, strong fingers of the elven mage continued to hold him still and with something like dread the Witcher realized what was about to happen next. 

Trying to pull away from Caranthir proved absolutely futile. There was nowhere to go for him. He looked to were Eredin had been just moments ago, but the king of the Aen Elle had disappeared.  
Terror started pooling in his gut, his anger dissipating rapidly as his mind remembered what hanging from a chain in Caranthir’s company meant for him.  
The first shot of pain through his body had him buck on the rope. His breath hissed out of his lungs. And then the elven mage started to weave an intricate web of pain across Geralt’s body. 

When he thought he would pass out, the rope was suddenly cut and hands under his arms helped him up and he was half carried, half dragged into a large tent. 

The elves deposited him in the middle of a large carpet and he remained there on his knees.  
Eredin was back and he smiled coldly down at him.  
“Your pain is gone and your mind is at peace. I have to apologize, it might look like one of my games but I need you clear of mind. I want to talk to you and you’re of no use with your guilt-ridden, human consciousness getting in the way.” 

He sat himself down on some cushions and indicated for Geralt to join him. The Witcher slowly stood up and fell more than he sat down. But when he listened into himself, he found that the elven king was right. His mind was calm - maybe even too calm.

“Your ploughing mage needed to use his sadistic torture methods to achieve that? There was no other way - a potion maybe?” His voice was more like a whisper and even that hurt his throat.  
Too much screaming did that to you. He wondered quietly if Ciri had been nearby and heard him - he hoped not.

“Caranthir might have unusual methods but they tend to work very well.” Eredin paused before continuing, “I want you to understand that I mean no harm to your daughter. She is just part of something bigger and I - my people - need her.”  
He paused again for a short while before he continued with a hard stare at the Witcher, “And I will not stop before I have her. She will fulfill her destiny with the Aen Elle. And nothing, not even you can stop that.”

Geralt’s eyebrows rose in mock surprise “Is all this pathos not getting on your nerves? There is an easy way to get her to cooperate - did you know that?” Geralt twisted his lips into a half smile at Eredin.  
“Convince her that your cause is just and right. If you manage that, she will come to you… willingly.” He bit out the last word and glared at the elf.

Eredin looked at him with a strange curiosity “You are still upset about the conditioning? Although you enjoyed the results quite a lot? Do you think that you would have reacted differently without the magic?”

Geralt huffed.  
“You wanna try?” he said dismissively but then his breath caught in his throat when Eredin leaned forward, his eyes blazing with the same desire he had shown when they were talking in his gardens, just before Geralt had decided to join the Wild Hunt. But this time it was neither guarded nor subdued.  
A shiver ran down Geralt’s spine and when Eredin lifted his hand he groaned. The elven king only held his hand in front of the Witcher’s throat, his fingers hovering several inches from the skin. 

And without hesitation Geralt closed those few inches until he could feel Eredin’s fingers curl around his throat. He shut his eyes and the thing in him, which he thought had disappeared together with the magic, howled triumphantly.

A slight tremor was recognizable in Eredin’s voice when he whispered in Geralt’s ear “You are magnificent, and I will make sure that you will remember this night until the end.”  
“Stand up.” The command in his voice left nothing else to do for the Witcher and he slowly lifted himself up, the elf’s hand following his movement and never letting go.

When Geralt felt Eredin’s hand finally leave his throat, he found it hard to refrain from following the touch. With his eyes still closed he concentrated on breathing. Anticipation had him clench his fists at his side and when he felt hands work on the ties of his tunic it took all his will to stay were he was. All he wanted was to devour the elf, taste him and feel him. 

The hands were slowly moving across his body, removing his tunic and shirt, until only the bandage around his middle remained. When cold fingers slid over his chest he could feel his nipples harden and a hiss escaped him. His fingers started to twitch when Eredin’s hands slid lower on his body, the king walking around him, touching and examining his scars. He was so close, Geralt could feel his warm breath ghost over his skin and he heard an amused chuckle when Eredin saw the goosebumps erupting on the Witcher’s pale skin.

Knowing that by now the Aen Elle must have seen the bulge in his trousers, Geralt stopped trying to swallow every sound that wanted to come over his lips. He admitted small moans to escape him, but those grew into serious groans when he suddenly felt a hot tongue lave over the claw marks on his chest. 

“It pleases me immensely to see you respond like that. But there is still some part of you that wants to fight, isn’t there?” the elf’s silken voice whispered in his ear.  
A growl that was quickly turned into a whimper when Eredin sucked at his nipple, was all Geralt could manage as an answer. His legs were starting to grow weak and he locked his knees to remain standing.

“Get on with it, ploughing elf.” he snarled with growing desperation when Eredin continued to explore his torso but never even came close to his rock hard and wanting cock in his breeches. A few times his hands had already twitched to grab the elf, and shove him down onto his knees but something in him had stopped him before he could actually do it. 

So he was relieved when Eredin finally started to undo the ties on his breeches and his long fingers slowly slid underneath the leather and grabbed the flesh of Geralt’s ass.  
“Undress.”  
Somehow Eredin’s voice sounded like it wanted to burn itself into the Witcher’s soul. 

It took all his will to not simply tear the breeches apart at the seams, but to slowly shove them down his legs, and step out of his boots first before throwing them into a corner. In all the time, Eredin’s hand never left his ass. 

The elf continued his exploration of Geralt’s body, walking slowly around him, touching here and there. When he saw the drop of clear pre-cum appearing on the Witcher’s cock he lifted a finger and carefully collected it. Bringing it up to his lips Eredin let his tongue slide over the digit and he licked it off, eliciting a groan from Geralt whose cock twitched.  
“I believe you need to release some of your tension. Touch yourself - I want to see you come standing in front of me.”

Geralt shot a disbelieving look at the king, who had already taken a few steps back and was leaning against a large chest standing at the side of the tent.  
However, his hand was already moving towards his cock, and when he closed his fist around it, he moaned at the feeling. He decided to go at it as if he was alone, he did have the practice, after all. 

His eyes locked onto Eredin’s as his hand started to pull his cock with long, slow strokes. Twisting his wrist when he came to the head he could feel the incredible friction that was caused by the hard callouses on his palm and fingers. Letting his other hand lightly cup his balls he bit his lower lip but couldn’t stop the small moans escaping him. Eredin seemed riveted by the sight and his eyes had started to roam over the Witcher’s body, flickering between his face and the hands on his cock.

At one point Geralt closed his eyes and suddenly an image of Eredin behind him - buried to the hilt, bending his head back in ecstasy - popped into his mind and his hand increased its speed on his cock. The movements became more irregular and his other hand wandered up to his chest, caressing the hard flesh of his nipples and pinching them.  
When he was close to coming he opened his eyes again, and seeing the blazing desire and lust visible in Eredin’s face, he came with a hoarse cry, spilling over his hand and on the floor, his whole body shaking before he dropped to his knees, unable to remain standing any longer. 

He was still on his knees, panting, when he felt something cold roll against his hand. Looking up he saw a small vial, filled with oil.  
“Prepare yourself.”  
The command in the elf’s voice had him grab the oil and coat his fingers before his brain caught up. He snarled up at the Aen Elle, dropping the vial and clenching his slippery fingers into a fist.  
“Make me.”  
His voice was gruff and had dropped another register with the words being at the same time a challenge and a plea. 

Eredin looked at him for while, before turning around and taking something out of a chest. When he came back to Geralt, he went down on one knee before the kneeling Witcher. Geralt saw that he was holding a long thin leather rope with a loop at the end.  
Feeling a strange pull in his core, Geralt bared his throat to the Aen Elle, who carefully placed the rope around it, his fingers softly stroking the Witcher’s sweat-slicked skin.

Threading the end through the loop he pulled it tight. Geralt felt how his body reacted immediately and his muscles relaxed. He sighed and slowly moved his hand behind him. Carefully he circled his finger a few times over his puckered hole, his breath catching as small shivers started coursing through his body.

He hissed when he broke through the tight ring of muscle and started to push his finger in and out. His body was still wrung out from his orgasm before, but he could already feel his cock twitching again. The leather around his throat tightened and he added another finger. Scissoring in and out he started panting. But when he wanted to add a third finger, Eredin pulled his hand away and pushed him down onto the floor. Feeling strangely empty, Geralt moaned into the carpet. He didn’t resist when the elf took both his arms and bound his wrists behind his back with the remaining length of the leather rope. By now it was so tight around his throat, that he could already feel the lightheadedness that came with oxygen deprivation and whenever he tried to move his arms, the sling would tighten even more. 

Eredin was still in front of him, and pulled Geralt up to his knees before his hands softly touched the Witcher’s face, holding him. It took a few heartbeats for Geralt to focus on the Aen Elle but then he felt like drowning in those cold pale-blue eyes, burning with desire. He let himself fall down into their unfathomable depths, his breaths coming shallow and hard. Geralt's lips parted when Eredin shoved two fingers in and he let his tongue swirl around them, coating them with his saliva and sucking them deeper.

Stifling a moan, Eredin pulled his fingers away and moved behind the Witcher. Geralt felt a hand between his shoulders, pressing his body down onto the floor. He didn’t resist and moaned wantonly as the elf shoved his two wet fingers into him. His cock started twitching and leaking copious amounts of pre-cum when Eredin’s fingers found the bundle of nerves inside him and stroked it unerringly with every push.

Then the fingers pulled out and Eredin pushed his hard cock into him. Despite the preparation and the oil, the pain had him throw his head back and an agonized whine erupted from his lungs.  
Eredin’s hand stroked softly over his lower back.  
“Take me, you know you can do it.” The elf’s voice was low and hard as he pushed himself deeper without giving Geralt time to recover or adapt to the intrusion.  
Fighting the pain, the Witcher pushed his hips up and back, trying to get as much of the elf’s cock into him as possible. Finally seated to the hilt, both men were panting and sweat had started to pool between Geralt’s shoulder blades. He was till trying to accommodate the Aen Elle and grit his teeth against the burning pain. The sling around his neck had pulled even tighter and he was slightly swaying on his knees.

Eredin then started to fuck into him with long, slow strokes, taking his time and letting the Witcher get used to his cock. He adapted his angle slightly until Geralt started whining with every stroke, growing desperate for some kind of friction on his own cock. 

Changing his rhythm, the king began to push harder and faster, unrelenting and no longer with any consideration for the Witcher underneath him. Geralt was now constantly moaning, despite the fact that he was hardly able to breathe. Eredin’s cock hit the nerves inside him with every other stroke, stoking the fire inside him and making him push back and meet every thrust.  
Grabbing a fistful of his hair, Eredin suddenly pulled him up to his knees, the changing angle of his thrusting cock eliciting a painful sob from the Witcher. 

Snarling, Eredin pulled Geralt’s head even further back, forcing him to arch his body near breaking point and his movements became more erratic and brutal. Geralt’s mouth opened in a silent scream as he hadn’t any air left in his lungs, and his whole body jerked when a hand finally wrapped around his neglected cock and gripped him hard. 

Still pushing relentlessly into the Witcher, Eredin started to stroke him with quick pulls, twisting his fingers slightly around the hot, hard flesh. It only took a few strokes to send Geralt over the precipice into his release, his cock spurting long ropes of seed onto the floor. His oxygen-deprived brain went into overdrive and sparks exploded in his vision, his body shivering uncontrollably and he could feel his internal muscles clenching down hard on the elf’s cock. Geralt hardly felt Eredin’s teeth sinking into the flesh on his shoulder, the Aen Elle shuddering through his own orgasm.  
The Witcher’s body was still sending tremors through him when his brain finally gave up and everything went dark.

_______

The first thing he felt when waking up was cold. He found himself on the floor of the tent, the leather rope still around his throat and wrists but no longer so tight as to strangle him. A thin blanket had been thrown over him but it did little to keep out the chill night air.  
Eredin was nowhere to be seen. With a groan Geralt turned himself onto his side, pain spreading through him. He had obviously been cleaned up but that did nothing against the throbbing feeling between his legs. 

Thinking back at how he had craved the submission and actually begged for it had him shiver, now that his mind was clear. But he knew very well that this time he had done it without being forced by magic. He had wanted it, and Eredin had been only too willing to give it to him.  
Despite everything he felt a well-known hot pull in his groin and his cock twitched slightly. Grinding his teeth he tried to ignore it.

Geralt spent the rest of the night on the floor, unable to sleep or meditate, his thoughts racing through his brain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized that I am succumbing to the old trope of the "always nearly-dead, but still fighting better than everyone else"-hero. The guilt lies fully with all those fantasy books I read as a teenager. 
> 
> (Not really) sorry :)


	11. The beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here it is. The final chapter. 
> 
> I hope that you can all relate to my solution of the amnesia problem. Anyway - it was great fun to write this story. Thanks for everyone who stayed with me for the ride.

Before sunrise Eredin came back into the tent. He removed the leather rope and threw Geralt’s clothes at him. Slowly the Witcher dressed, watching the king closely.  
“Are you in a hurry to get somewhere?” he asked dryly.  
The king didn’t answer and only shot him a cool look before exiting the tent again, leaving the Witcher behind. Geralt was about to follow him out when two large warriors entered the tent and shackled his wrists on his back before dragging him outside.

Caranthir was already waiting for them. The smirk on his face told Geralt that the mage knew very well what had happened the night before. He just stared coldly at the Aen Elle raising an eyebrow, daring him to say something.  
The smirk turned into a sneer and Caranthir turned to mount his horse without any further comment. Geralt relaxed slightly - he was in no mood whatsoever to take the elf’s commentary on his sex life - no matter how twisted it might seem.

Being put onto a horse himself, the cavalcade waited for Eredin to join them and they set off. At first Geralt thought they would follow the main road but soon the hounds who had started ahead of them veered off into the forest, towards the pass. Grinding his teeth, Geralt hoped that Ciri hadn’t gone for the portal up at the cairn but instead turned to the unicorns to help her get away. 

It didn’t take them long to come to a narrow path that led up the mountain towards the pass. Forcing them to ride in single file they slowly made their way up. With the sun already high up in the sky the horses finally stepped out onto a clearing. The path seemed to end and even the hounds had stopped and were milling around a large stone cairn. They seemed to have lost their scent and were starting to snarl and bite at each other.   
Caranthir lifted his staff and the beasts cowered, still snarling but no longer going for each other’s throats. 

Eredin looked at Geralt, who had remained quiet during the ride and nodded to the elves at his side. Two warriors forced Geralt to dismount and led him in front of their king. The Aen Elle was wearing his armor but had not yet donned his helmet. Pale blue eyes shining with something like a fever stared at Geralt for a few moments. The intensity of the elf’s stare had Geralt shiver, but this time there was no arousal, because the fire in the elf’s eyes was something different altogether. The sheer violence of the desire in Eredin’s look had Geralt take a step back. It was a lust for power that burned in the king’s face like a raging fire. 

Geralt’s stomach dropped when he realized that Eredin was projecting his desire for Ciri and her power at him. Knowing what the elf was capable of, he felt sick. He would never allow the Aen Elle to even touch Ciri, let alone take her to bed to fulfill this ploughing prophecy of his. 

The vicious smile on Eredin’s face told Geralt that the king knew exactly what was going on in his mind.   
“How long will your little Zirael take before she comes out? Would you say that torturing you might speed things up?” the king chuckled quietly.   
“But I don’t think that we have to revert to such cliché behavior. Simply knowing that you are still in my power should convince her to come to us. Sooner or later she will succumb to her feelings for her foster father.” His voice had remained cold and scathing. But at the last words disdain had creeped in.  
Still being held by the two warriors at his side, Geralt decided not to answer the king. There was no point in discussing this anyway. Also, to his horror, he could feel how the wall Caranthir had built up in his mind, started to slowly crumble.   
Looking over to the mage, Geralt saw a small smile on his lips. Caranthir clearly knew what was happening and he was obviously enjoying it. 

Movement at the edge of the clearing had Geralt turn away from the mage and his fingers clenched into fists at his back when he saw the shadows among the dark trees move and step into the light of the bright midday sun. There must have been about two dozen of them, proud and tall they stood along the edge of the clearing. Geralt could see the viciously sharp tips of their horns, and he saw the intelligence in their eyes - so clearly different from a normal horse. 

And then he heard them. Although it only happened in his mind, he was able to tell which one was speaking to them.   
“You will leave this place. And you will leave the human with us. Begone and you will be able to return to your city unharmed.”  
A bay mare was stepping a bit further towards them, tossing her head and lifting her head in what was clearly a threat. The elves around Geralt had turned their horses towards her and drawn their swords, the hounds were snarling and waiting for a command to attack. Only Eredin and his mage remained unmoving and just looked at the unicorns.

“This has nothing to do with you. All I need is the female human you are hiding. Give her to me.” There were no additional threats coming from Eredin. He seemed incredibly sure of himself and the superiority of the elves.   
When he saw the small figure of Ciri walk through the unicorns and stop at the bay mare’s side, Geralt made a unconscious move towards her, only to be dragged back by his guards. Frustrated he clenched his teeth. He didn’t like being a bargaining chip one bit.

Ciri looked at him with a fire in her eyes that had him hold his breath. He couldn’t stop the small laugh that escaped him. Caranthir turned towards him, an incredulous look on his face.  
“You ploughing elves have no idea what you are in for. You definitely overestimated yourself.” He grinned mirthlessly at the mage, feeling the sneaking tendrils of Caranthir's magic trying to force themselves into his mind.   
The already failing mental barrier gave in completely and he could feel his emotions and memories flow back in full force and he gasped, swaying in the grip of the guards as his knees gave out.

The unicorns used that moment and attacked. Their horns slashed at the elves as they charged the mounted warriors and hounds alike, and the screams of the Dearg Ruadhri filled the cool air. The unicorns were much more agile than the heavily armored elven horses. And they knew were the weak points of the elven armor were. Both men and horses were dropping to the ground - screaming and bleeding from the stab wounds the unicorns inflicted on them. 

Geralt could only watch on his knees. His guards had long joined the fight and Eredin and his mage were trying to get past the unicorns to reach Ciri. But they were fighting against someone who for once seemed superior to them. Caranthir’s spells mostly hit just earth and Eredin’s sword cut through empty air. And Ciri didn’t remain behind the unicorns, either. The young woman was flicking through the air, appearing at the side of an Aen Elle, who was charging at a unicorn, simply flicking her wrist and slashing through armor and flesh before she moved faster than Geralt could follow her to the next elf. Her sword found it’s target unerringly and the riders of the Hunt were just too slow to catch up with her.   
It was clear that she had her powers back, not even Geralt with all his mutations would be able to move this fast. He was trying to get rid of the shackles but only managed to chafe his skin until his wrists bled. At the back of his head the pain started to stab into his brain and he could feel how it started to cloud his vision at the edges. Even if he had managed to free himself he wouldn’t have been able to hold a sword, let alone fight the Aen Elle with it. 

A horrible scream had him turn his head and he saw Caranthir on his knees, the horn of the bay mare slowly emerging at his shoulder as the unicorn had him speared from behind. The mage had lost his helmet when he had fallen from his horse and pain and surprise were etched into his beautiful elven features, his mouth still open and a trickle of blood trailing down from his lips. Held up on his knees by the unicorn he groaned deeply when the mare pulled her horn back and then he slowly dropped to his side. His hand was reaching out towards where his staff had rolled when he had been pierced by the unicorn but he couldn’t reach it.   
Somehow his roaming eyes met Geralt’s and despite the crippling pain in his head, the Witcher managed a toothy smile at the mage, locking his eyes with the pale elven ones. He held the mage’s stare until the elf closed his eyes with a final sigh and remained still - dead or unconscious. 

When Caranthir had fallen, Eredin had tried to drive his horse against the bay unicorn but he had been intercepted by a few other unicorns which had attacked him with renewed ferocity. The king had managed to kill one of them before he was thrown from the saddle and disappeared underneath the sharp hooves of the unicorns.   
Despite everything, Geralt felt a pang of regret when he saw how Eredin’s hand loosened around the hilt and his sword dropped from his grip before the unicorns retreated and he could see the bent and torn remains of the elf’s armor and his body which was trampled half into the earth. 

Silence spread around the cairn. The unicorns still alive quietly moved back into the shadows, only the bay mare remained and as she stood in front of Ciri, Geralt was sure that they were communicating. However, he couldn’t hear her voice again as he had before and Ciri’s voice was too low even for him to understand her. At one point Ciri looked over to him, anger blazing in her eyes before she turned back to the unicorn.   
With an angry toss of her head the mare seemed ready to attack the young woman, but Ciri remained in front of her, and her voice rose so he could hear her.  
“You will never get him. Not as long as I am alive. I know what he did, but he wasn’t himself then. I loved Ihuarraquax and I will always live with the pain of having lost him, but I have never promised you him.” She pointed at Geralt before she continued “I understand your pain that your mate was killed as well but you just had your revenge. The king and his mage are beaten.”  
She wanted to continue but the sound of breaking branches and iron-shod hooves approaching through the forest had her stop and turn around. 

With a groan Geralt realized that somehow Caranthir or Eredin must have managed to call for reinforcements and now nearly a hundred heavily armed riders charged at them. The unicorns, who had only retreated beyond the edge of the clearing were re-emerging and trying to protect their leader, clearly no longer trying to fight the Aen Elle. 

Geralt managed to get to his feet and when he tried to force his legs to move towards Ciri and the unicorns he suddenly felt a presence at his side. Ciri was there and her hands grabbed his arm, stabilizing him, while she was dragging them closer to the cairn. She was aiming for a strangely set pattern that had been set into the stones. Pushing her hand against it and murmuring under her breath, Ciri seemed to vibrate with energy. 

When the blue oval opened up in front of them, Geralt was for the first time in his life relieved to see a portal. Turning back he could see the Aen Elle charging after the unicorns who were disappearing between the trees like shadows. A few of the elves were stopping for Eredin and Caranthir, who both seemed to be still alive. Geralt could see Eredin’s blood covered face when the king was held up by his warriors and he held the hard look of the Aen Elle. Eredin’s eyes burned with something unknown and the promise of pain. 

Geralt was still staring at him when Ciri dragged them both through the portal.

________

 

He was howling, his screams echoing around the forest that surrounded them. Ciri tried to hold his hands from scratching out his own eyes but he was way too strong for her to do anything but just hang on to him, crying his name and begging for him to remain still.

She was sobbing when she finally touched his forehead and sent a sliver of her power into him. Geralt fell into unconsciousness and his hands dropped to his side. 

When he awoke the next time, his hands had been bound behind his back and Ciri was busying herself with his bandages. She had removed the old, dirty linen and was cleaning the wound and all the small cuts and bruises. Geralt felt her hesitating before she sucked in a hard breath and touched the wet cloth to the bite mark at his shoulder. 

“Thank you.” His voice was rough and he had to concentrate to speak, his mind still overflowing with too much of everything.

“What they did to you, why…?” Ciri seemed close to sobbing and lifted her hand to lay it on the side of his face, slowly caressing his cheek. Geralt leaned into the soft touch and sighed. 

“They wanted you all along - even when they had Yen. All they wanted was you.” Somehow this only seeped through into his mind now. He had never been more than bait and something to play with. Even the whole pretense of having him join the hunt was nothing more than an attempt to lure Ciri from wherever she had been. The fact that Eredin had found his plaything more than just a little entertaining and maybe even developed some form of sick attraction to Geralt was just a byproduct of the main goal. To have Ciri in his power and make her bear his child. 

Geralt ground his teeth.   
“I was just something to toy around with. Caranthir could use me for his sadistic experiments and Eredin,…” he didn’t finish the sentence.   
Ciri smiled at him.   
“But now they have neither you nor me.” Her voice was forcefully joyous. She wanted to lift his spirits.   
But Geralt wasn’t so sure that they had won. His mind had been more than just damaged - he could already feel the tendrils of insanity touching him. Without the magical barriers Caranthir had built up, he wouldn’t be able to deal with what had been unearthed within him. 

Looking up, he saw that Ciri knew, too. Trying not to sound too hopeful he whispered “You got your powers back, can you use it? Build a wall like Caranthir did?”

Ciri stared at her hands for a while before she answered.  
“I cannot duplicate what he has done. And even if I could, you would only be part of what you had been before.   
Whenever Caranthir put you under a spell he destroyed something in you. Not as bad as the complete loss of emotions when they broke you but still bad enough that you would not have survived very long with them. 

Geralt closed his eyes. “So Eredin knew that every time Caranthir used a spell on me, to suppress the guilt and the pain, he would do irreparable damage that would ultimately kill me?”  
He felt Ciri nod. 

“That’s why he wanted the mage to stop and just try to get it under control by inflicting pain.” Geralt remembered the discussions Eredin had had with Caranthir about the mage continuing his experiments. And how just the pain from a night with the mage would be enough to keep his mind calm enough for at least a few days. Geralt huffed at what now seemed to have been an attempt of compassion from the Aen Elle. Or maybe he didn’t want to lose his toy too soon - Geralt knew he would most likely never find out why Eredin really had done it.

 

Ciri continued to clean his wounds. They didn’t speak about it again. Geralt curled up at his side after he tried in vain to meditate to calm his mind.   
He hadn’t asked her to free his hands, knowing all to well that he would again start to scratch out his eyes in an attempt to get the memories out of him.   
But he knew that this was no solution. He would soon lose himself completely. Becoming a screaming, drooling husk he rather wanted to be dead.   
Killing himself seemed the only option, but he would have to do it soon, before he was too far gone. It was something he could never ask of Ciri. He wouldn’t even be able to ask it of Yen although she would probably do it for him. 

He spent the night trying to fight his demons and when the sun rose the following day he had nearly lost.  
Breathing in short bursts he was concentrating on a blade of grass that grew right in front of his eyes. It was beautiful in its long, slender form. He could see the thin veins and how the light reflected in the drops of dew that had collected on the bright green surface. The thin blade became everything for him, the center of his universe, which became smaller and tighter with every shuddering breath he took.

It took a while to register the hand on his face. And even longer to hear the voice, calling his name.  
He opened his mouth and with great effort managed to get one sentence out.  
“Help me, make it stop…”  
And then he was swept away by the ghosts of his past, present and future.

_________

Only years later Ciri told him what she had done. She hadn’t wanted to tell him at all and only had succumbed to his insisting questioning after he found out that she had something to do with his escape from the Wild Hunt. 

When he had been about to fall completely into madness, Ciri had managed to call up her magic. With a desperation that nearly had her kill him at her first try, she managed to burn all memories from his mind. She tried to stop at what he had done during his time with the Wild Hunt but seeing how even his normal memories from before were tormenting him, she took those as well. But she managed to separate them. 

With time they would most likely come back to him. And that time would also help to build back the normal barriers everyone has in their mind to keep their emotions and memories under control. 

Only those dark and twisted memories from his time with the Aen Elle were ripped completely from his mind. Every memory of him writhing under the exquisite pain inflicted by Caranthir or the agonizing passion he felt from being with Eredin - they were taken to never come back to him.

And when he asked Ciri what she had taken away and what had happened with him while he was with the Hunt, she took his hand and shook her head. Geralt never asked again.

_________

 

The man woke up on the forest floor. Pain radiated through is body. He clenched his hand to his side, where a rather nasty wound from an arrow or crossbow bolt was half-healed and sent sharp stabs of agony through his gut. It was cold and the leaves on the trees were about to turn into their autumn colors.  
Without really knowing what he was doing, he got up and moved away from where he had woken, his instincts yelling at him to run. In his mind he saw a young ashen haired woman tell him to run as far as he could. Her green eyes were pleading with him before they slowly faded away from his memory.

Stumbling through the high grass and nearly tripping over roots he ran blindly. And when finally his strength left him, and he dropped to the ground, he thought he heard faint voices calling out before darkness took him in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END of this story and  
> THE BEGINNING of the Witcher 1

**Author's Note:**

> The one thing everybody knows. Geralt offered himself to Eredin in exchange for Yen.  
> And the Aen Elle are sadistic bastards. Especially Caranthir - as we've never really seen his face I decided to make him extremely attractive and otherworldly beautiful. A nice contrast to his rotten soul (if he has any at all).
> 
> As always - comments are encouraged. Thanks for reading. Seeing the stats counters going up makes my day :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Red Regicide](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12791400) by [rostropovich](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rostropovich/pseuds/rostropovich)




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